All Good Things
by Thrice Written
Summary: Mr. Alfred F. Jones is the pilot-turned-domestic gym teacher at the Academy. Arthur Kirkland is one of his many students. Sometimes, lust gets the best of everyone, but the power of attraction is not the same as the power of love. RP with RipperJak.
1. One

**All Good Things**

US/UK/US

Thrice Written and RipperJak

**R18**

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**Author's Notes**:

**RipperJak:** Hey guys! I can't compare to Wenn's awesome writing skills, but I hope you all have as much fun reading as we did writing :'D

**Thrice Written:** My first legitimate RP ever! Can you believe it? Time's flown since the day I first set eyes on a Hetalia fanfic. . . . Anyway, I can't really think of a way to describe this story besides "gratuitous, scandalous teacher/student story with slightly questionable plot development and generous amounts of PWP." And since we tend to see a lot of teacher/student fics where Arthur's the teacher and Alfred's his student, Heather and I decided to switch it up a bit and make Alfred the teacher and Arthur the student. Hope you guys enjoy! (And yes, you did read the pairing right: it's going to be US/UK/US. XD)

And the cast:

**RipperJak = Arthur Kirkland**

**Thrice Written = Alfred F. Jones**

**WARNINGS:** ephebophilia (when an adult's attracted to a teenager), forbidden teacher/student relationship, age gap, sex in kinky places, sex toys (possibly)

Don't forget to review and give this story some love!

And, as usual, Hetalia belongs to Himaruya.

-x-x-x-

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**ONE**

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It's hot. Too hot. Far too hot for him to even bring himself to take part in the lesson today, never mind play football outside with the sun in his eyes. He'd tried his hardest to take part at the start, but with the pressure of having to take part in a team of annoyingly boisterous classmates that can even rival Mr. Jones at times, he'd soon given up. After the ball slips from his path once again, Arthur grunts, huffs, and kicks the dirt with gritted teeth before limping over to the side of the field.

His chest feels tight and his heart hammers against his chest as he pants, gripping the netted fence and wiping his sweaty forehead. He's done. Any more of it and he will drop on the spot, he's sure.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mr. Jones sees Arthur heading off the field, and he quickly sidesteps a pair of players jostling each other over the ball (the one that Arthur had lost from his possession), slips down the sidelines, and joins Arthur. "Hey, what's up?" he asks rather senselessly. "Something wrong?" He sees the sweat matting Arthur's hair and the unhealthily red flush staining his face and deduces rather belatedly that maybe Arthur has had enough of soccer, but the words are already out. No wonder people like to call him insensitive.

"I have . . . had it with football today, Mr. Jones," Arthur pants, brows furrowed as he leans his head against the fence, silently thankful that the older male's shadow provides him with some shade from the sun — a small mercy. "This is pointless, I feel like my heart is jumping out my throat!"

"Yeah, you don't look so good. Hold on, lemme get you some water before you pass out on me." Mr. Jones dashes down the field, snatches his plastic water bottle from the bench on the other side, and returns. He's not winded in the least — he's in top physical condition from the couple of years he spent in the military, and the sun and heat don't bother him. Thinking about the military and why he got discharged early on makes him sad, though, so instead of wallowing in self-pity, Mr. Jones holds the water bottle out to Arthur. He has to admit that Arthur's always interested him, if only because he's secretly turned it into a project to make Arthur lose his ever-present scowl.

But at the rate he's going, he'll probably have more success turning bony, stamina-challenged Arthur Kirkland into a professional athlete.

Arthur takes the water bottle and presses it to his lips, all too happy to open his throat to the wonderful chilled liquid. He swallows and lets out a shaky, content sigh. "Th-thanks," he murmurs, cheeks tinting a bit as he wipes his mouth.

That one second — that one innocent little gesture, a dehydrated teenage boy wiping water from his mouth — is enough to plunge Mr. Jones's mind into the gutter. On second thought, maybe the heat really is getting to him. He manages to maintain his composure (if only barely — he's always been one of those people who wears his heart on his sleeve) and says with what he thinks is cool composure, "No prob, kid. You — you can sit out for a while, if you really aren't feeling up to rejoining the game. I won't mark you down."

Arthur sits at the edge of the field for the remainder of the lesson. He tunes into the game with only mild interest. He's never considered himself much of a sports man but he's always tried somewhat with football (_not_ soccer!) if only for the pride of his nationality. His family's move to the U.S. at the start of his high school years has left him feeling detached and unsatisfied; he's never quite been able to settle down in the country. Arthur knows though, somewhere deep down, that his homesick national pride is more of an excuse than anything else. In reality he's never felt settled, never felt at home. He's lived his life walking the path of indifference, and such realisations always creep up on him during restless nights and idle spells, leaving a heavy feeling in his chest and a bad taste in his mouth.

Finding his gaze wandering over to Mr. Jones, Arthur watches the older man run for the ball, fully engrossed in the game with gleaming blue eyes and a wide grin. He'd be lying if he denies that his teacher fascinates him. From his appearance to his personality, how those eyes can go from shining with childlike excitement when interacting with his class to stoic and intense with competition or discipline (the latter never failing to make him weak at the knees, even if he'd only seen it once after a fight had broken out). With a body like a god, toned and strong, Mr Jones is a heartthrob to the women and an idol to the men. For one of the first times in his life, Arthur finds himself agreeing with the majority: Mr Jones is infatuating.

"Hey! Beilschmidt! Let him go!" Mr. Jones roars from his position near the goal. He had been poised to kick the ball into the net, but a scuffle between a pair of boys a few hundred feet down the field has caught his attention. God, he loves soccer almost more than he loves fast food and ogling a certain student sitting out for the rest of the class, but seeing two of his students' interactions progress beyond playful shoving frustrates him. Sports are all about teamwork; what good does it do to have the team members turn on each other? Why can't they all just cooperate? "Did you hear me, Beilschmidt? Cut it out!"

The other players stop and stare with mild interest as Mr. Jones abandons the ball and rushes across the playing field to break up the two boys' spat. As he approaches them, Gilbert Beilschmidt reluctantly lets go of his victim's hair and takes a step back. Mr. Jones gives him a look of reproach before saying, "Seriously, Gilbert, I expected better from you. Why don't you go cool down at the principal's office?" Gilbert glares back, holding his ground. "You know what? It's not a suggestion — go."

Gilbert storms off the field with his head held high, nose in the air.

Mr. Jones turns back to the boy whose hair Gilbert had been yanking on — Francis Bonnefoy — and directs him to the nurse to have something done about his aching head. As he points off to the school, his shirt rides up, showing several inches of tanned skin and toned muscle that's visible even to the eyes of one Arthur Kirkland sitting in the sidelines.

Arthur's breath catches in his throat at the sight of the tanned skin of Alfred's abdomen, the trace of a deliciously defined pelvic bone disappearing under the waistline of the gym teacher's underwear. He licks his lips before he can stop himself, teeth nibbling at the lid of the water bottle as the flash of skin disappears almost as quickly as it was shown.

Yes. Mr. Jones is handsome. Incredibly so and, even though it's frowned upon to think so, even though it's considered shameful, Arthur really can't care less. It's his mind and nothing can stop him from enjoying the occasional passing, dirty scenario his mind would conjure at times like these. When Mr. Jones pulls up his shirt to wipe his face on warm days, or when he flexes his muscle during explanations, or even how he always looks at the end of the day — exhausted and satisfied, cheeks flushed and clothes a mess.

He shoots a glare Francis's way as he passes and turns his attention back to Mr. Jones.

Mr. Jones turns his head and sees Arthur teething on his water bottle, and immediately has to look away again to stop himself from pitching a tent. Seeing a student — definitely off-limits, but he can't help himself, and a bit of fantasizing's never hurt anyone, has it? — gnawing like that on one of his personal items is sinfully arousing. And the way Arthur's tongue peeks out from behind his lips to swipe over the slightly frayed plastic . . . No. This is his student. Even if it's only in his head, Mr. Jones can't help but feel guilty about imagining Arthur's mouth somewhere else, somewhere that needs those lips and tongue so much more. . . . He grits his teeth and — perhaps more tersely than normal — tells the other students to keep playing.

Arthur looks at his watch to find that the lesson will be nearing the end soon. Half pleased and half disappointed, he puts the water bottle to the side and stands, the rest of the pupils idling between playing the game and chatting to their friends.

It's a magnetic attraction. What other explanation is there for the way Arthur seems to draw his eyes like flies to honey? Mr. Jones clears his throat and glances at his digital watch — oh, class is going to end soon. What better time to retrieve his (Arthur-marked) water bottle than now? He leaves the field, patting and high-fiving some of the students as he goes and returning every smile thrown his way with his usual thousand-watt grin, and reaches Arthur's side. He leans down to pick up his water bottle. "Feeling better?" he asks.

"Ah," Arthur mumbles, chest fluttering a bit as Mr. Jones walks up to him. "Er, yes." Clearing his throat, he dusts the grass off his legs. "Much better . . ."

Mr. Jones stares at his long, pale legs for a moment. Then he catches himself and grins awkwardly. "That's good. Next time, tell me sooner, okay? I don't want you to overheat and faint." As if on cue, the bell rings distantly in the school to signal the end of the period.

"If we have to do football outside again this week, I might just . . ." Arthur grunts. When the bell goes he feels his shoulders sag a little. He looks up at his teacher and bites his lip.

Playing favorites is not something Mr. Jones makes a habit of. At least, that's what he's been telling himself since the beginning of his teaching career at the Academy. But then again, he formed that view several months before he met Arthur Kirkland. "Uh . . . we're going to be playing soccer for the rest of this week and all of the next. Do you . . . um . . . would you rather have a pass to the library instead? I mean, I'll still record you as present, but I can understand how hard it is on you."

Stunned, Arthur gives Alfred a suspicious look. "Mr. Jones? Are you condoning that I skip out on class?" he asks, resisting the urge to smirk.

"Of — of course not!" Mr. Jones backpedals. "I'm just . . ." He scrambles for words. Oh, God, Arthur's smirk is really distracting. "I mean . . . I . . . I totally empathize with you about not wanting to play soccer. I used to hate gym back when I was in school. Mostly 'cause . . ." He winces. "I used to be . . . overweight. But this isn't about me! Would you rather be out here burning up with the rest of us instead of in the library?" His memories of his "fat" days are . . . unpleasant, to say the least, and he would rather not think about them. But he can't lose face in front of Arthur; he doesn't want him to think that he's anything less than a good, tolerant gym teacher! Because that's all he is. Honest.

Oh, but who is he trying to kid? He knows he's only doing this because it's Arthur Kirkland.

He bites his lip to stop himself from laughing. Oh, that was cute. That was _really_ cute. Arthur knows his teacher likes to talk, but his embarrassed ramblings are priceless. "Actually, Mr. Jones . . . ," he says quietly, his nerves getting the better of him somewhat, though he does a good job hiding it. "I was wondering if you could . . . help me out."

"Help you out?" Mr. Jones echoes, momentarily puzzled. "What do you mean? Like — train you in soccer or something?"

"Yes," Arthur says, cheeks tinting a bit. "I'm usually free after school."

"Oh. Uh, okay." Arthur is asking him to stay after to train him? Really? His day just got ten times more awesome. "Um, let's see . . . I don't think I have anything important to do today. Today's okay with you, right?"

"Yeah." Arthur cheers internally. "Will you teach me?"

"'Course, if that's cool with you." Dammit, his face feels hot — is he blushing? Has Arthur noticed? Or is it just the heat? "I think you should get going — class'll be starting again in a few minutes. You'll need to change your clothes." Thinking about Arthur stripping is not doing his concentration — or his conscience — any good. Mr. Jones hurries on. "Uh . . . so I'll meet you out here after school. You don't have to change into your gym clothes again unless you want to. Just bring your sneakers. That sound okay to you?"

"That's fine," Arthur says quietly, averting his eyes as his cheeks tint a bit. He stands there fidgeting for a few moments before he inhales quickly. "Right. Okay. Well. I'll see you after class, Mr. Jones."

How Mr. Jones wants to hear Arthur call him "Alfred." If only once. "Yup, see you then." He stands there a moment longer, watching Arthur try to avoid his gaze and trying to avoid Arthur's gaze at the same time, before he gives himself a shake and reluctantly goes off to pack up the equipment.

After school, huh? He wonders exactly how much he and Arthur are going to get done. But he feels bad for thinking like that, because he's not sure if that . . . seductive note in Arthur's voice was real, or just in his imagination. Surely it must just be his brain being hopeful. Someone like Arthur Kirkland wouldn't just . . . put out for a teacher, would he?

Mr. Jones hopes he will. Oh, God, how he hopes, even though he knows he'll get fired if they're caught.

The rest of the day drags on for Arthur. He finds himself picking at his food during lunch, mind wondering in maths class, and setting fire to the pans in cooking class. His mind fills with his teacher and the excitement of being able to be alone with him. Alone. Completely. The thought itself is enough to make him squirm with impatience.

The bell finally rings out for the end of the day and Arthur has to stop himself from grinning. _Finally_, he thinks, packing up his things into his schoolbag. He swaps his shoes over for his sneakers and heads over for the field to wait for his teacher.

He really hopes that his teacher feels the same way as him. He has to — Arthur saw the way he looked at him, how his cheeks flushed when his own did. Such an attraction is dangerous and risky, but if he's completely honest with himself . . . he doesn't really care.

Mr. Jones's heart starts pounding in a way that's definitely unhealthy when he sees the lone figure making its way toward him. It has to be Arthur. No one else would come all the way out here. Yet the racing of his heart is dictated not only by excitement (and slowly simmering arousal), but also by fear — fear that someone, an innocent bystander, will happen by and see him with Arthur. Of course, he's being fanciful when he imagines that he and Arthur will be doing something worth being reported for . . . who knows if that was even Arthur's intention in the first place? For all Mr. Jones knows, maybe Arthur really was just looking for help in the athletics department. Which means he himself is nothing more than a dirty pervert, a near-pedophile — someone unfit to be teaching at a school with so many guileless potential victims.

Oh, yeah, that's definitely Arthur walking towards him. His hair gleams gold even in the mellow afternoon sun. Mr. Jones straightens up from where he'd been lacing up his sneaker and waves. "Hey, Arthur! Over here!" he calls cheerfully, glad that his voice doesn't wobble.

Arthur's heart flips and rattles in his chest at the sound of his teacher's voice. He waves back and stops to fix the heel of his sneaker, though it's really only in order for him to get his bearings. He can't go up to his teacher looking as nervous and excited as he does. So, with a deep breath, he puts on his usual uninterested expression and makes his way over to his teacher who, by the way, looks drop-dead gorgeous in the orange evening sun.

"So . . . you ready to get started?" asks Mr. Jones. He's rather proud that his voice is still dead casual — no external sign at all of the chaotic emotions fighting each other for dominance in his chest. "I was thinking we could start off with some basic stuff, like dribbling." Just to give his hands something to do (he's always been somewhat awkward, and his hands have always been a sure sign of exactly how he's feeling since they tend to shake like crazy when he's frazzled in the slightest), he picks up the stack of orange cones he'd set aside with the rest of the equipment. These he begins to place at even intervals down the sidelines, careful not to look over his shoulder at Arthur no matter how much he wants to. He does trip once or twice, and to keep his mind off his embarrassment, he focuses on the feeling of Arthur's gaze alighting on his back as lightly as a butterfly on a flower petal. He wonders what Arthur's thinking. He feels like if he — if they don't do anything about the unresolved tension between them, he just might lose it.

"Dribbling," Arthur repeats to himself as he watches his teacher set out the cones on the sidelines. He picks up the football and spins it with his hands as his idle gaze near-undresses his teacher from behind. He licks his lips, trying to keep his lust at bay. Oh, the things he wants to do . . .

Finally done setting up the cones (and perhaps a bit more proud than he should be of himself for not falling flat on his face at some point), Mr. Jones turns around to face Arthur. And for a moment, he's mesmerized by the fluid twist of Arthur's pale wrist, the slender ribbons of his fingers, as the ball spins around and around between his hands. To buy himself a second to regain his cool, he props his hands on his hips and tries to look the part of the teacher, with everything under control. Though he has the inkling that his purely professional (oh, who is he trying to fool? He's never been "purely professional," and being around Arthur just makes him act like a downright idiot) demeanor is beginning to slip. "Uh . . . okay. Dribbling! Do you know how to do it, or do you want me to show you first?"

"I know how," Arthur murmurs, placing the ball onto the ground. "I've played with my brothers a few times before." Looking up, he locks his gaze with his teacher's and feels the air in his chest leave him like a punch. Those blue eyes are breathtaking, and the fact that he's going to be so close to his teacher, the fact that he's going to be the only one his teacher will be paying attention to, excites him.

Mr. Jones decides right then and there that green is his favorite color — mostly because Arthur's eyes have an abundance of it, and they're breathtaking. "Oh, really? Then you should be fine. Here, put the ball down in front of the cone at the end of the line and dribble the ball around the cones 'til you get to the end. Then we'll go from there." He watches Arthur as he moves to follow his instructions, and a sudden flash of an image — one of Arthur completely nude, pale and slim and needy — crosses the front of his mind with such vividness that it leaves a streak of white in its wake.

Holy shit. He really needs to get a grip. He's not so desperate that he'll molest his own student, is he? It's already enough of a crime to just strip the teen in his head and imagine all the things he wants to do to him even while they're keeping up the guise (is it a guise?) of soccer training. If they actually do something . . . Mr. Jones swallows.

He'll be arrested, and who knows what will happen to Arthur. But he still wants it. He wants it like someone who's caught a glimpse of paradise but knows it's just beyond his reach, hovering tauntingly before his fingertips. Or _is_it beyond his grasp? Arthur is right there; if he wants to, if he really wants to, he can step up around behind him and . . . Plus, what are the chances that Arthur will refuse? He's a teenage boy — he has hormones. There's no way he can't want it, too. Unless he doesn't swing that way, and Mr. Jones's perception of him has been wrong from the start. . . .

That possibility is awful to think about, because it means that whatever sick fantasy he has going on inside his head, it really is only that: a sick fantasy. And what does that say about himself?

Arthur tries his best to dribble the ball in and out of the cones, though he finds the task considerably more difficult than he had thought. With the thought of his teacher's eyes on him, concentrated and strong, his knees wobble. Nevertheless he persists, occasionally tripping up on the ball or one of the cones and letting out a huff. In reality, all he wants is his teacher's attention. It's wrong. God, is it wrong, but the many heated nights spent with the thoughts and fantasies of his teacher are enough to overpower the guilt. There is no guilt or hesitation left, and now all he wants is for his thoughts to become reality.

Arthur's clumsiness is incredibly endearing — and it goes to show that even the unflappable student council president, the resident ice "queen" of the school, has his weaknesses. Mr. Jones wonders if he himself happens to be one of them, and immediately feels ashamed right after. He jogs along beside Arthur as he makes his way down the line of cones, keeping up an easy stream of advice as Arthur trips and stumbles. When they reach the end of the line, he says encouragingly, "That wasn't too bad! Let's turn around and do it again, and this time you can . . ."

And their impromptu little practice session goes on in the same vein for just over an hour, with some other drills thrown in. _Arthur isn't quite athletic material_, Mr. Jones thinks, _but he's a fast learner._ The sun is setting rapidly by the time they finish up, and as night begins to creep in, he starts to feel vaguely uneasy. Everyone knows that inhibitions tend to lower as soon as the sun goes down. And Arthur is looking as appealing as ever, especially with his shirt dampened with sweat and his pants beginning to ride low on his hips, sliding down from all the exercise. . . .

"Good grief . . ." Arthur pants, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "I swear, I think you must be bonkers to do this for a job," he murmurs in good heart. With the cones stacked and football put away, there's nothing to keep them there. Arthur should just say his thanks and head off home. Something stops him however, and by the looks of it something is stopping his teacher too. He can't help but let his eyes roam over the older man's well-worked frame. The cold night air cools the sweat on his skin and sends goosebumps up his arms and, licking his lips, he glances up at his teacher once again and exhales quietly. "Mr. Jones . . . ," he purrs out, as if just to feel the words on his tongue.

"Y-yes . . . ?" Mr. Jones says, and this time he can't keep the nervousness from seeping into the edges of his voice, because his blood is pounding in his ears and rushing into every corner of his body and threatening to unbalance him entirely. _This might be it_, he thinks. _I can still turn back._

But he doesn't want to. Oh, God, he will never want to, if only because it's Arthur Kirkland.

"It's cold . . . ," Arthur says quietly, voice but a whisper as he bites his lip. He steps forward, watches the way his teacher's eyes light up with excitement and wraps his arms around the man's waist slowly, carefully. There is no turning back, he can never take this back. The thought only excites him further and he presses his chest against Alfred's.

Arthur's frame is so much smaller, so much more . . . delicate than his own. That's the first thing Mr. Jones notices. And then his scent . . . sweat, fabric softener, a hint of tea. His body is warm.

He feels Arthur's narrow ribcage press against his own, feels his arms wrap around his waist. Such thin arms, but Arthur's touch . . . He lifts his own arms up and, after a second of hesitation, slides them loosely around the small of Arthur's back, feels the bumps of his spine through his shirt. He can still turn back. They haven't done anything, not yet. But he knows it's already too late.

Arthur gasps quietly and his eyes flutter shut. The feeling of Alfred's hands on him is better than anything he's felt before, and it only leads him to imagine how strong Alfred must be, and how much he wants Alfred to use such strength on him.

The sound of Arthur's breath in his ear is such a turn-on, if only because it's so raw, so honest. _He likes being touched by me_, Mr. Jones thinks in a daze. "Arthur," he breathes into Arthur's hair. "Are . . . are you sure you want to do this?" He needs to know.

"Yes," Arthur breathes without hesitation, the murmur of Alfred's voice sending a shiver down his spine. He shifts and presses himself closer to the other. "Touch me."

Oh, Jesus. Should he . . . ? "Can you — can you call me Alfred? Out loud?" Does he sound too desperate? Will it turn Arthur off? "Just once?"

"Alfred," the teen whispers, loving how it sounds to him out loud. "Touch me, Alfred," he repeats, running his hand up Alfred's back.

As Mr. Jones, Arthur is off-limits to him. A student. Untouchable. But as Alfred . . . it's a whole different matter. "Okay," Alfred says, just as softly. He's afraid of breaking the bubble that's formed around them. He's afraid of what they're going to do. He's afraid that he'll overstep his bounds, that he'll hurt Arthur, that they'll be caught. But those fears are nothing compared to the feel of Arthur's hand against his back, the touch of his hot palm sliding up between his shoulder blades.

No, it's too late to turn back now. He's too far gone. They're both too far gone. All he'd needed is Arthur's confirmation, his consent, and now that he has it . . . Alfred lets both of his hands drop. Lets them slip down Arthur's back as Arthur's hand is sliding up his (he has to bend over a little to do it, because Arthur's several inches shorter), and molds his fingers over the curve of Arthur's backside, hitches him up against his thigh, surprised that Arthur's so light. That he himself is so much stronger.

Arthur lets out a gasp as he's lifted. Letting out a soft moan of excitement, he wraps his leg around the other and wraps his arms around Alfred's neck to secure himself. God, does he want this. He's been waiting — wishing — for this for so long.

Alfred effortlessly holds Arthur up, supporting him with his arms. The light in the sky is dying, a shadow falling over them, and for a moment Alfred wonders if it's wise to stay out when it's getting later and later and when their excuse to train is slowly becoming obsolete. Such thoughts are wiped from his mind when he deliberately moves one hand to cup the underside of Arthur's thigh to keep him up and uses the fingertips of the other to slide between Arthur's legs, graze his perineum through his pants, feel the burn of his skin through layers of clothing that he desperately wants removed.

He doesn't have the courage to touch Arthur where it matters just yet. He's been with other men (though not many), but Arthur is so much younger, prone to his teenage hormones, and Alfred doesn't want to go too far, too fast. He doesn't know how Arthur will respond to any of his advances, so he continues to stroke that bit of concealed skin between Arthur's legs and waits breathlessly for Arthur to make the next move.

Alfred's touches send shocks through his skin and he finds himself writhing and moaning. Though the excitement and pleasure is wonderful he feels somewhat embarrassed for his uncontrolled behaviour. He's the council president, assertive and strong in his actions and yet here he is, panting and writhing under his teacher's touch. The more he thinks about it though, the less he cares.

He breathes against Alfred's neck and kisses along his jaw, loving how the older man gasps. Cupping the back of Alfred's head, he presses his lips against the other's, gently rutting his hips forward.

Arthur's movements are so typical of a horny high school boy. But it's sinful how much Alfred likes feeling him grind himself against his leg, feeling his lips on his jawline and then on his mouth before they're kissing like they're trying to devour each other. Arthur's kisses are shaky but confident, slightly off-center but achingly sincere, wholesome but nowhere near chaste. He doesn't taste like much . . . but just the feel of him and his wet tongue is making Alfred lose his head.

His hand strays from Arthur's thigh — letting him down onto his feet again — and instead dips under the hem of Arthur's shirt, knuckles brushing the warm skin and smoothing over it before he finds Arthur's hipbone and grasps it with a sturdy grip.

Arthur lets out a moan at the feel of Alfred's firm hand over his hip and breaks their kissing, instead going to nibble and suck at the other's lower lip as his own hands trail up his teacher's arms, feeling the strong and firm muscles under his fingertips. "Alfred . . . ," he moans again, suckling on the skin of his neck.

"Ouch," Alfred says absently, his words losing themselves in the slight hollow behind Arthur's ear, as he feels the edge of a tooth against his skin. Not hard enough to leave a hickey or any sort of mark, but . . . "Arthur." He shivers when Arthur's hands reach his shoulders. "Oh, God." With more boldness, he shifts one hand downward from where it had been gripping Arthur's hip and feels for his balls. When he encounters softness right below Arthur's groin and feels the heat grow, he knows he's found them, and begins rubbing soft circles into the sensitive skin.

It's like heaven. He wants so badly to see Arthur naked, to feel his bare skin without clothes hindering his touch. He wants to kiss him again. He wants a thousand things at once.

He begins to work his way toward getting them, and lowers them both down on the grass, letting go of Arthur to lay him down on his back, so close that his scent is everywhere.

The teen feels his breath rush out of him at the feeling of Alfred's hands on his balls, rubbing and fondling gently. The pleasure makes his cock twitch in anticipation and as Alfred lays them both down on the ground, he spreads himself out and tries to relax.

He's so caught up with the excitement than when he locks gazes with his teacher he can't help but want him. He wants everything Alfred will give him. For the first time in as long as he can remember he feels excited, he feels secure and he's never felt more _right_.

"Hey," Alfred whispers, leaning down so that their faces are close together. "Is it . . ." He swallows, then gently nuzzles Arthur's neck. He can't resist him. He's so hopeless. "Is it okay if we don't . . . you know . . . do it?" He prepares himself for Arthur's disappointment, because he's sure sex is what Arthur wants. But it's too soon. They barely know each other, and they don't have any of the things they need to make the experience enjoyable and painless for the both of them. He's content with just touching Arthur, and he wants to know if Arthur will be satisfied with just that as well. He doesn't want to crowd him; but he doesn't want to deny him, either.

Arthur's brows furrow and he lets out a small huff before rolling his eyes and nodding. "Yes . . . ," he whispers. Deep down he knows that it isn't the right time or place, though he can't deny his slight disappointment. His cheeks warm and his face softens however once he realises that his teacher is thinking of his comfort. Yes, Alfred is right. Now is not the right time. "That'd . . . be best, I think."

Alfred pauses for a bit, chewing his lip and staring down at Arthur's body and rumpled clothing as he contemplates their alternatives. Then he has an idea. His hands follow his eyes downward to Arthur's waist and begin to unbutton his pants.

"We can still do something else, though. Do you . . . mind oral?"

Eyes widening and cheeks flushing, Arthur somehow manages to lose all of his cool from earlier on. "Wha — I, uh — well — uh." He furrows his brows and bites down on his lip to shut himself up. _Where is your composure, Kirkland? God._ "No . . . I don't mind."

Alfred hears the poorly concealed uncertainty in Arthur's voice, and thinks that maybe he's coming on a little strong. He has to keep in mind that Arthur's only in high school, that he most likely doesn't have that much experience tucked away under his belt (in both the literal and metaphorical sense). Making himself slow down, Alfred coaxes Arthur's zipper open, tooth by metallic tooth. "Okay," he says, trying to sound as soothing as he can. "Just . . . let me know if you want to stop." With the fastenings out of the way, he gently presses Arthur's cock through the fabric of his underwear. Arthur's hard; it shows that he's getting some pleasure from all of this, at least. Arthur's knee bumps into the back of his shoulder as Alfred feels him jerk instinctively in reaction to his touch.

Once it seems that Arthur's had enough of the teasing and wants the real thing, Alfred slides the waistband of his underwear down. He runs his thumbs through the trail of golden hairs that begins low on the plane of Arthur's pelvis and, with gentle fingers, takes his cock in his hand. Just looking at it makes Alfred want to close his mouth around it, put his tongue to good use, suck until his cheeks hollow out, until Arthur's taste is ingrained into his palate. He wants to hear Arthur's voice rise, soft and needy, into the dawning night. He wonders how long Arthur will last. Ever so carefully, Alfred slides Arthur's foreskin down to expose the tender head and the moisture beginning to gather there.

He is made of wants. He is a bundle of desire. Lifting his head briefly and making eye contact with Arthur to make sure he's watching, to comfort him with his steady gaze, Alfred eases Arthur's erection into his mouth.

He's going to go to hell for this; he's dragging Arthur down with him by association. But if it means he'll get to be with Arthur as a result . . . so be it.

He hopes Arthur will forgive him.

"Oh God —" the teen gasps, feeling Alfred's warm mouth close around the sensitive head of his cock. The wet warmth sends shivers down his body, causing his muscles to tense and legs to spasm.

He's never felt so good, feeling Alfred's teeth gently graze the skin of his shaft. He has to close his eyes for a moment, indulging in the bliss of it all. Alfred — his teacher — taking his cock into his mouth and looking at him with such lust and desire . . . he's never seen something more erotic, never felt so aroused.

"Wh-what about — ah! What about y-you?" he pants, brows furrowed and cheeks flushing hot pink as he looks down at the glorious sight once more. "Ohhh . . ."

"Wha' 'bou' me?" murmurs Alfred. He lets the vibrations from his throat press against the head of Arthur's dick and travel down the length of the shaft. For a brief moment, he grazes his lower teeth up the delicate skin of the underside, and when he reaches the tip, he flicks his tongue over the slit to taste. Salty, almost bitter, but the sound it draws out of Arthur is sweet to his ears.

"Uhhn . . . ," Arthur moans lowly, back arching up off the ground as Alfred's tongue causes him to inhale sharply. "S-surely you want to . . . to get off too?" he breathes, biting his lower lip to cut off a rather high-pitched cry he won't be proud of.

He trails his hands up under his shirt and shudders at the feeling of his cold hands on his body, sliding up past his stomach and navel to his chest. Pinching one of his nipples, he lets out a high-pitched gasp and bucks his hips up, causing Alfred to choke slightly around his cock. He would apologise but he quickly finds himself too far gone in pleasure, wrapped up in not only the arousal, but the sheer lewdness of the entire situation.

"Ah . . . um." Alfred raises his head up. How does he put this without sounding completely cheesy? "I'm . . . fine either way. I just want . . . I just want you to feel good." He feels Arthur shift under him. What is he doing — oh! Alfred can feel his eyes widen as he watches Arthur work his own nipple with his fingers. Oh, God, he's kinkier than Alfred had given him credit for. As if responding to the additional stimulation, Arthur's cock spasms a little in Alfred's mouth. If that isn't a good reason for him to come spontaneously in his pants, then Alfred doesn't know what is.

But at this rate . . . he doesn't think Arthur's going to last very long. As he reaches up to continue fondling Arthur's balls in his free hand, he can feel them beginning to tighten up. "Arthur . . . ," he mumbles around his dick. "Are you getting close?"

"U-uh-huh." Arthur nods, licking his lips and panting softly. He feels his abdomen clench and convulse as the pleasure increases, the pit of heat in his stomach slowly but surely rising as he gasps and pushes his hips up to meet his teacher. Good God, he's never felt so good, never felt so needy or desperate for someone's touch. . . .

"Don't come just yet. It feels better if you do _this_," Alfred whispers. Sliding his fingertips up to the base of Arthur's balls, he cradles them in his hand and gives them a very gentle tug, drawing them away from Arthur's body. The technique is good for fending off orgasm and making it feel a lot more pleasurable, but Alfred hasn't had the opportunity to try it out on anyone but himself (and he usually gets mixed results). He unlatches his mouth from Arthur and switches to stroking his smooth navel instead to still his trembling.

"A-ah God . . . ," whispers Arthur, eyes hooded and cheeks warm as he looks down at his teacher. Alfred's hands are soothing and warm against his stomach and he focuses on the sensation to keep himself from reaching the end too quickly. He wants to come, he feels like he should, but his body doesn't seem to be catching up with his mind. "Al . . . Alfred . . ."

Arthur is so beautiful. Even in the semi-darkness, Alfred can see the flush that has bloomed in his cheeks, the glimmering green of his half-lidded eyes. And the way Arthur says his name in a voice so husky with arousal . . . that's probably the best of all. On a whim, Alfred lowers his gaze from Arthur's face and kisses his abdomen, warms the cooling skin with his lips. _He's so beautiful_, he thinks again, and nuzzles his nose down Arthur's ribcage, pausing to suckle his belly button and lick the inside of it.

"Alfred," the teen whispers, brows gently furrowed as he lets his eyes flutter shut, indulging in the pleasure and gentle touches from the older man. "I want to . . . I can't —" he murmurs, though the growing heat in his groin cuts him off. He hopes Alfred will take the hint.

Alfred can't deny Arthur want he wants. He really can't. Even earlier in the day, during gym class, he was giving him the chance to skip class without marking him absent. What has Arthur done to him?

Slipping down once more, Alfred gets Arthur's cock into his mouth again and sucks hard. This time, he doesn't let go.

Arthur chokes on a moan. He wants to tell Alfred that no, he doesn't have to do that and that he doesn't want to gross him out with the taste, but alas his words are cut off as his orgasm catches up with him and courses through his body.

Clenching his eyes shut, he grips at the grass below him hard enough to tear it out as he arches out, legs trembling and body tensing as a wave of heat and pleasure washes over him. An overwhelming surge of feelings for the man between his legs hits him at the peak of his orgasm, followed by a stream of weak whines and lastly a desperate "A-Alfred . . . !" before he collapses again and rides out the last of his climax in the small sparks of the now over-sensitive nerves.

Arthur's pelvis connects with Alfred's nose as he arches up, and Alfred winces, but then he feels something wet and hot in his mouth and he loses himself all over again.

It's not the most pleasant taste in the world, but it's Arthur's. That realization alone makes Alfred take it without complaint, and he keeps pulling at Arthur's cock with the suction of his mouth until he feels as if the cum is going to spill out. Then he releases his hold, sits up a little, locks eyes with Arthur (the feverish look in those green eyes is captivating), and swallows before wiping his lips on the back of his wrist.

The teen lets out a weak moan at the sight and bites his lower lip. The sight itself is very erotic, however Arthur finds himself blushing and averting his eyes after a few moments, heart battering against his chest as his body tries to recover from the post-orgasmic bliss.

"That was . . . great," he murmurs breathlessly, mind hazy.

"That's all?" Alfred grins at the expression on Arthur's face. "Oh, don't take it personally. I'm kidding." He leans forward again and sprawls across Arthur, taking care not to crush him with his weight. He does it because he wants to feel close to Arthur — because he wants to hear his heartbeat, made rapid by the ebb and flow of his recent orgasm — but he accidentally grinds his crotch into Arthur's upper thigh and makes it really obvious that he's aroused out of his mind. "Ah — sorry!" he mumbles in a hurry.

"You're hard . . . ," Arthur murmurs quietly, finding no need to raise his voice with the older man so close to him. He can feel Alfred's body heat against his and it makes him never want the moment to end, makes him want to . . . to . . . cuddle. Maybe in a bed, together, warm and tired.

Arthur's realisation that he's clingy after sex (can this be called sex? It's close enough) doesn't come as much of a surprise to him. But it's embarrassing and it's odd, and he'll never admit it out loud. He blushes softly and turns his attention back to Alfred's obvious erection. "I can help," he whispers, raising his thigh up to Alfred's crotch again. "If you want . . ."

Alfred swallows again — this time out of nervousness. Having Arthur's thigh against his groin makes him tremble inside. He wants him so badly . . . "Uh . . . no, it's okay if you don't want to. Please, don't feel like you have to do it. . . . Oh, God," he breathes as Arthur begins to massage him with his knee. He buries his face into the crook of Arthur's neck, shuts his eyes, his muscles quivering as he continues to hold himself up. Arthur's leg is so warm . . . he can feel it through his pants . . .

"Let me . . . ," Arthur breathes out softly, hand coming up to cup the back of Alfred's head as his other hand trails down to Alfred's crotch. His cheeks heat up as he feels the hardness through the material and he feels a moment of pride for being the one to make it happen. _I did this_, he thinks. _He wants _me_ . . ._

He trails his hand up and pushes past the band of Alfred's pants, feeling the soft trail of hair as he wraps his fingers around the pulsing cock. Alfred stiffens above him and the choked grunt against his ear gives him enough courage to start stroking and touching, thumb gliding over the sensitive head and fingers massaging his balls.

Did Arthur's hand feel warm before? Now it feels slightly chilly on his cock — probably because Alfred is so hot down there that it almost hurts. One of his hands gropes about blindly and lands on the shoulder of Arthur's shirt, where it tightens into a fist. Arthur's fingers are slender, his touch butterfly-light, but he's going for all the right places. Alfred can hardly breathe. And he doesn't mind, not at all, because it feels absolutely incredible.

He lets out another (embarrassing) noise at the feeling of Arthur's hand on the back of his head, stroking his hair. And chokes up when Arthur's cool fingertips find his balls and begin to roll them gently. His legs — he's still on his knees — are threatening to give out; he dimly hopes that he won't end up falling on Arthur.

The teen buries his face into the side of Alfred's neck and squeezes Alfred's cock gently, loving the way his teacher flinches and grunts. He can see how Alfred struggles to keep himself upright, obviously wanting nothing more than to just collapse and indulge. "Does that feel good?" he asks into the other's ear, almost _purring_ as he feels what can only be pre-cum dripping down Alfred's cock and making the whole process a lot easier and less chafing.

Since when has Arthur become so dirty? Since when has his voice become so goddamn sexy-sounding? "Y-yes," Alfred gasps into his collarbone. He can feel dampness near his groin; his pre-cum must be making a mess. He lets go of Arthur's shirt and, grasping the waistband of his pants and his underwear, slides them down his legs and out of the way. The cool air hits the back of his thighs without mercy, but then the sensation of Arthur's hand on his shaft sends him spiraling back down (back up?) into his pleasure-high. Arthur's grip is getting softer, and Alfred wants more — he closes his hand over Arthur's and squeezes his fingers. The added pressure on his dick is amazing. Unable to help himself, he begins guiding Arthur's hand as he helps him pump his cock. His pre-cum slips and slides between their fingers, sticky and slightly obscene — but Alfred feels too good to let self-consciousness get the best of him now.

Arthur moans at their lewd behaviour. If he hadn't just come, he'd be hard again at the sight. Looking into Alfred's eyes he can see the older man is almost completely lost in pleasure. He lifts his own shirt up past his chest to expose his lithe frame, letting out a breathless laugh as Alfred's breath hitches and eyes instantly roam over the new teasing show of skin. If he were in his normal state of mind, if he were with anyone but Alfred, he knows he would be embarrassed. But this is _Alfred_ and his presence alone has always done strange things to him.

Oh, Jesus. Alfred stares. Arthur's nipples are dusky pink against his white skin, and they look irresistible. Without thinking twice, Alfred nudges his glasses off — to keep them from digging into Arthur — places them in the grass at their side, and bends over to suck on one of those little nubs. It hardens under his tongue almost at once. Alfred resists the temptation to bite down (he doesn't think Arthur would appreciate that very much, unless he happens to be into pain) and angles his head to lightly nip at the bud, teasing it until it turns a tender shade of red. He speeds up the rhythm of their hands on his cock, moaning into Arthur's skin because it feels _so good_.

Arthur moans Alfred's name and arches his back out ever so slightly, the touch on his nipple sudden and unexpected, but incredibly enjoyable. He tightens his grip around Alfred's dick, slowly becoming just as desperate to get Alfred off as the man as himself. He wants to make Alfred feel good. He wants to make Alfred moan. "Are you close?" he whispers, the small jolts of pleasure from his nipple causing him to twitch.

Hearing his own words from just minutes ago falling so seductively from Arthur's lips makes Alfred shiver. "Ah . . . almost . . . ," he replies shakily. "Just a little . . ." He spreads his legs out a bit wider and anchors his knees more firmly against the ground, rests his cheek against Arthur's chest, listens to him breathe in little excited hitches. "Ah, ah . . ."

"Let me finish you off . . . ," the teen whispers, gently removing Alfred's hand from his cock before he picks up the speed and uses his other hand to fondle the man's balls. He can tell by the way that Alfred's breath hitches and labours that he's close, and it only makes him more excited.

"Come," he moans into Alfred's ear, hands tightening as he reaches the head of the man's cock. "On me. Please . . ."

On him? "Are you . . . hah . . . sure?" Alfred barely manages to get out. He's about two seconds away from climaxing, and at this point, he doesn't really think he has a choice of_where_. Their bodies are so close together that it'll be unavoidable, and Arthur's bare skin is just begging to have his cum on it. . . .

"Yes." Arthur nods, licking his lips. "On my stomach." He can think of a few other places he wouldn't mind as well, but even this far caught up in the moment he feels a little too embarrassed. Again, something that can wait until they are in private."Come on, Al . . ."

Much as he wants to blurt out Arthur's name, Alfred isn't even able to form a coherent word as his body goes numb for half a second before he comes on Arthur's skin in the rush brought on by his orgasm. He moans, low and deep, feeling the vibrations of his voice spill over his lips and settle against Arthur's neck. Arthur's scent is so good, so beautiful, and his head is in a whirl as his body is washed along in the pleasure and all he can think about in those five seconds is how vivid the world is, how complete it feels to be with Arthur, and how the feeling of Arthur's hand tight around his cock is driving him beyond heights he's never reached before with another person.

When he's done, he really can't stop himself from collapsing onto Arthur. His limbs just won't hold him up anymore. His dick, trapped between their bodies, rubs up against the soft lower part of Arthur's abdomen, and even though he feels sated and exhausted, it still sparks a reaction somewhere deep in his gut. Not enough to make him hard again — biology is such a bitch sometimes — but if he could . . .

Feeling bubbly and content from his orgasm, he laughs faintly and echoes Arthur's earlier words to make them even. "That was great."

"Mhmm . . . ," chuckles Arthur, arms winding around Alfred's back to rub in slow circles. They must look like a mess, sweaty and panting, covered in dirt and grass. Arthur will have to take a shower when he gets home. The thought of returning to his empty house makes him frown a bit though.

Alfred is happy to just cuddle with Arthur on the cold grass . . . hell, he'll gladly to do it for the rest of the night. Which reminds him . . .

"Oh, shit, what time is it?" He abruptly jerks up and checks his watch. "What? Have we really been out here for two and a half hours? Holy crap, that went by fast!" Alfred looks up at the sky. It had gotten dark while they were still preoccupied . . . the first stars are already out. Why didn't he notice earlier? He grabs his glasses from where he'd put them down and jams them back on his face before turning back to Arthur. The sight of him still spread out on the ground, his shirt lifted up to his chin and his stomach splattered with his cum, makes Alfred flush.

Oh, God. They did it. They really did it. It wasn't full-out sex, but . . . "What time are you supposed to get home? Will your parents be looking for you?" Something close to panic wells up in Alfred's throat.

"Oh, don't worry about that," Arthur chuckles, pulling himself up into a sitting position. He dusts off his shirt before standing up on slightly wobbly legs. Ugh, his clothes are _definitely_going to need a wash. "They're out of the country right now."

"Really?" Alfred relaxes — then tenses up again when another thought hits him. "Wait, then who's looking after you while they're gone? Will they be worried about you?" He becomes aware that he still has his pants and underwear around his knees, exposing his nether regions to the air, and quickly pulls them back up as he gets to his feet. His hand feels stiff. Jeez, he hopes he didn't get any cum on his clothes — what will people think if they see him covered in dried semen, heading off school grounds?

"I'm fifteen, Alfred. I think I know how to look after myself," says Arthur, eyes glittering with slight amusement. Honestly, his teacher is hopeless. A total dork.

Oh . . . oh, crap. Alfred blinks and tries hard to keep himself from going pale. Fifteen? Seriously? He knows that Arthur is a sophomore — a tenth grader — but . . . somehow, he'd figured Arthur would be older. Because he LOOKS older. Oh, shit, jail has suddenly become a very real possibility. "Uh, I see. Okay. Um, so there isn't anyone who'd be looking for you right now?"

"No . . . don't worry," Arthur says, noticing the look of guilt and panic in Alfred's eyes. He wants to tell Alfred that it's okay, that he shouldn't worry . . . but he's unsure if that'll help right now. He puts his hands in his pockets.

"Okay. That's . . . good." Alfred shifts awkwardly. Now that the lust between them has been (mostly) resolved, and they aren't caught up in sort-of-not-really sex anymore, he's not really sure how to act. Should he go back to being Mr. Jones, his cheerful, optimistic self, or does Arthur prefer him to act more intimately now that they've . . . done stuff? He tries to find something to say, and what pops out of his mouth is, "Your fly's still open."

"Wh — oh." Arthur's cheeks flush as he frantically works to zip his fly back up, breaking his usual mask of indifference to show that yes, he's feeling awkward too. He's not really sure what to say. Should he just go back to being Alfred's student? Just another teenager out of many?

The atmosphere is getting too tense for Alfred's liking. He watches Arthur for a moment, uncertain of what to do; then he finally breaks out into a smile. "I can't believe we actually did . . . that," he says. He doesn't really care that he sounds stupid and giddy. He just wants to get it off his chest, say it out loud, have Arthur confirm that yes, it really did happen, and that it won't have been a dream when he wakes up the next morning in his bed, all alone.

"Heh, eh . . . yeah." There's a moment of awkward silence between them again before Arthur visibly relaxes. "I won't . . . you know. Tell anyone," he says. "So don't worry about that."

"Thanks. I won't, either." There are so many things that are different now. They'll no longer need to sneak glances at each other during gym class and wonder if the other realizes just how attractive he is. They'll no longer have to be uncertain about what they feel (though what they mean to each other is a whole other thing to agonize over). _Maybe_, Alfred thinks,_Arthur'll even agree to do it again in the future._ Maybe they'll actually have sex next time.

Does what occurred between them mean that they're now "together"? That they're committed? Alfred wonders if Arthur entertains thoughts like that about them, if he's still young and hopeful and hopelessly romantic. Either way, he knows that he himself won't be seeing anyone new anytime soon. Perhaps what they're doing would be considered unhealthy by other people, but to him, it's the most wholesome, fulfilling thing in the world.

It's time to leave, and he can see that Arthur silently agrees with this; they've lingered long enough. Suddenly, Alfred feels uncharacteristically shy. There's something he wants before they part ways, and he quickly voices it before his cowardliness can get the best of him. "Hey . . . can I, um . . . can I have a kiss? Before you go?"

The request catches Arthur off guard and he feels his cheeks heat up. It seems strange that someone almost twice his age can be so . . . shy. Regardless, he complies and reaches up to give him a peck on the lips. Such a chaste kiss doesn't seem enough though and he soon finds himself leaning against the man and pressing his lips against his in a soft, but sure, kiss.

Alfred presses back with equal tenderness, and when they finally pull apart, he finds that his arms are around Arthur and that Arthur's body is flush against his in a real embrace. He blinks, surprised that they've gotten to that point without his even realizing it.

They slowly draw back their arms. "Well, I guess I'll see you tomorrow, then," Alfred says after a bit.

"Yeah . . . ," Arthur says, and smirks somewhat. "I might give you a little visit after class. I want to . . . discuss things further." It seems like a good plan to him. He wants to see where Alfred's mind is in all of this after a night to reflect.

Alfred, for once, catches on to Arthur's meaning. Which is a rather hefty accomplishment, in his own opinion. Grateful for the opportunity for a bit of lighthearted banter, he grins. "Are you going to bring the 'discussion' materials? Or should I do that?"

The teen chuckles. Alfred really is a fool. A lovely fool. His endearing personality is one of many things he finds himself attracted to. "Well, I think you might be better at that than myself."

Alfred can't keep that grin off his face. "Okay, then. Same time, same place?"

"Sounds good to me." Picking up his school bag, Arthur says his goodbyes to Alfred and walks back home. It's a cold night and he feels the warmth from earlier slowly die down. Suddenly a shower sounds wonderful. A shower and some tea.

Ah. For Alfred, there's nothing to do now but put away the equipment and go back to his empty, Arthur-less apartment. Alfred does just that, and kicks back on his couch once he's home. He has a sudden craving for a bubble bath — so he goes to fix one up. After that, it's video games, and then sleep. Sleep and reflection and wondering whether or not his pleasure is worth his guilt where Arthur's concerned. Somehow, he feels it'll turn out in his and Arthur's favor, in favor of the existence of _them_.

Tomorrow has never looked brighter.


	2. Two

**x-x-x**

**_All Good Things_  
**

* * *

**TWO**

* * *

Alfred is having trouble focusing. _Lots_ of trouble, actually.

Let's see. In how many ways has he screwed up in the past three hours? In his first period gym class, he accidentally knocked over one of the more . . . vertically challenged girls when he spaced out in the middle of his dash for the ball during soccer. During second period, much to his chagrin, he ended up tripping and falling flat on his face (though that was his shoelace's fault, not his!). To round it all off, he spilled coffee all over Mr. Vargas, the bubble-headed Italian teacher, in the teachers' lounge during his break.

_Oh, and the fact that morning wood really doesn't only happen in the morning?_ Alfred grouses to himself. _Just makes my life even better._

His next class is with Arthur. And for the love of God, Alfred can't stop his palms from sweating. They've seen each other pretty much every school day since school started, but last night changed more than he had the brain capacity to acknowledge in the fluttery, scatterbrained state he was in before he went to bed. He's realized that he honestly knows next to nothing about Arthur. And that Arthur is a lot younger. Thirteen years younger, in fact.

_God, I'm almost twice his age_, Alfred thinks miserably. _Did we . . . make a mistake? Was last night a fluke? If anyone finds out . . ._

He plunges back into the game, hoping that Arthur won't accuse him of anything come next period.

Arthur can't bring himself to look his teacher in the eye when gym class rears its ugly head. He finds himself doing anything just to take his mind off the man, refusing to step out of the game even when his lungs near scream at him in protest. If he sits out he knows he will be tempted to gaze at Alfred and his mind will fill with all of the conflicting thoughts he'd spent all morning trying to kill.

He'd told Alfred that he wanted to see him after school and oh how he wishes he'd kept his mouth shut. It's not that he's regretting the night before. Well, actually, he is — but not what they did in itself. He can't bring himself to regret being touched by the older man he's became so infatuated with; it just felt so right. However, the timing couldn't have been worse. At school? Out in the open on a football field? What were they thinking? Not only was it risky and dangerous but it was also the last place he had expected and wanted his first sexual encounter to be.

_I have to sort this out_, he thinks to himself. _If this is going to continue then I'm going to have to . . . to speak to him. I'll find him in the staff room, politely ask for a word and we can calmly sort this out together._

With that, Arthur finds himself a little more collected. Yes, he can sort this out. He's not the student council president for nothing.

Alfred doesn't fail to notice the way Arthur avoids his gaze when they head out to the field to begin another game of soccer. _It'll be better if I follow his example_, he thinks glumly, and does just that, trying not to look toward the corner of the field that still holds the ghost of their _interactions_ last night. On the outside, he puts on his usual cheerful, energetic façade to avoid arousing the curiosity of the other students, but inside, he's a bewildered mess. He wants Arthur to look at him; yet, at the same time, he doesn't. He knows he won't be able to take it if he sees distrust or even hate in those green eyes.

And all the while, his inner magnet is veering in Arthur's direction, his body wanting to follow, wanting _more_, as though it didn't have enough the previous night. He feels like an animal, and it shames him to the core.

He wonders if their little tryst that afternoon is off. The "discussion materials" that they were joking about so casually yesterday are tucked at the bottom of his gym bag, hidden away in his storage room of an office next to the main gymnasium inside the school.

_I'll come out here after school anyway_, Alfred decides. _If Arthur doesn't show up . . . then I'll know how he feels about all this, and I'll just let it go like last night never happened. If that's what he wants. I owe him that much, at least._

The period ends without incident, and Arthur still doesn't look at him when they re-enter the school building. Alfred watches him disappear into the boys' locker room. The heavy, forbidding feeling in his chest grows stronger, and he has to make himself move to prepare for his next class.

Maybe he'll drop by the staff room again later. He needs some of the mindless, oblivious consolation his colleagues are so capable of offering.

The rest of the day drags on just like yesterday and Arthur's mind wanders like before. Throughout every lesson Arthur recites his plans in his head.

_I'll be cool about it_, he thinks to himself in English class as he looks up at the clock above the whiteboard. Ten minutes. Ten minutes until he gets to see his teacher. _I'll tell him that I don't mind taking things further and that I . . . that I enjoyed myself._ He feels himself blush. God, he sounds ridiculous. Alfred is a grown man, for all Arthur knows his teacher isn't interested in dating such a young teen. He certainly won't be surprised.

As the bell signals out the end of the day Arthur feels his heart race. Oh God, oh _God_. He can't turn back now. If he fails to show his face then Alfred will think he isn't interested — but he is interested, damn it! He springs out of his seat and packs his bag, barely waiting for the teacher to properly dismiss the class before he's out the door.

There's no need for any sort of pretense this time. Alfred lingers at the far end of the field, leaning against the back of the bench, empty-handed except for his gym bag. He's far out enough that no one will notice him — or Arthur, when (if?) he shows up.

It had been nice chatting with some of the other teachers, even if it had meant meaningless and roundabout small talk that always landed back on two topics: the weather and the orchestra teacher's engagement to one of the history teachers. It wasn't refreshing, exactly, but it had done what Alfred had wanted it to do: distract him until the meeting with Arthur.

Trying to steady his shaking hands by gripping the bench with one of them and sliding the other into his jeans' pocket, he glances at the dwindling crowd of students trickling out of the school and wonders if Arthur is among them. No sign of him yet.

Realising his teacher is absent from the staff room, Arthur's heart clenches in his chest. Does that mean he's actually waiting for him in the field? Arthur curses. He'll have to hurry if there's any chance of catching him.

Snaking his way through the crowds of students making their way through the halls, Arthur hurries out of the school and back up to the same field they were on the night before. His cheeks heat up and his heart hammers with the memories and nerves. His hands are clammy and his legs are shaking, but he keeps going.

When he catches sight of the lone form of his teacher he gulps and slows down. There is no longer any need to rush. He takes the time to compose himself and tries to relax. _You can do it, Kirkland. You've been practicing all day._

Alfred catches sight of Arthur at the same moment Arthur sees him — he can tell, because Arthur seems to give a subconscious little jump and his gait becomes less certain. The distance between them closes at both a frustratingly slow and alarmingly fast pace.

Then they're finally standing face-to-face. Alfred swallows — the movement reminding him rather ostentatiously of what he'd been _swallowing_ the night before — and bunches up the hem of his shirt in his hands. "Hey," he says finally, and this time he doesn't pretend that he's not nervous.

"Hey," Arthur says in response. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he takes a deep breath. _Okay, Kirkland_, he thinks to himself. _You know what to say. Tell him how you feel._

The silence between them is heavy and uncomfortable and Arthur gets angrier and angrier at himself when the words won't come out. _Damn it, Kirkland! Say it!_

"I . . . I want you to take me on a date!"

Arthur's cheeks burn red as Alfred's eyes widen. Of course the man's stunned, how can he not be? Arthur just blurted out the most ridiculous and unexpected thing ever. Oh God, how mortifying. The rest of his words come out in a muddled mess. The mature and ordered speech he'd been practicing all day flies right out the window.

"I-I! That is to say . . . I-I'll have you know that I wouldn't normal p-p . . . _put out_ like that so easily! It was hot, you see, and I wasn't thinking straight. I mean, not that I didn't enjoy it . . . I did enjoy it a bit. A lot, actually . . ." His eyes avert in every direction as he babbles on, hands fiddling with the hem of his school shirt. "But that's not the point! My point is that I've reflected quite deeply on this and if you want to . . . to take things further then I expect you to take full responsibility!"

Arthur's nervous pants fill the silence between the two of them as he looks directly into Alfred's surprised eyes. He gulps. "This weekend . . . ," he continues, mumbling. "I'm free. I understand that due to our positions and . . . age difference that dinner or movies would be inappropriate but I think getting to know each other is . . . required. Do you . . . get what I'm saying?"

Alfred blinks. Then blinks again. Did he really just see and hear Arthur Kirkland . . . _flustered_? "Uh. Yeah . . ." He clears his throat and collects his mind. _So that's what Arthur wants. I thought he was going to have a more negative reaction, but . . . did he just say that he enjoyed it? So he's not backing out?_ "Yeah, I get it. I understand."

The next part just comes out of its own accord. "I was actually . . . um . . . waiting for you to say something like that." Alfred fidgets. "Because, uh . . . I think a-a date would be good." And, as he considers it some more, he realizes it's the truth. A date with Arthur doesn't sound like a half-bad idea. _Far_ from half-bad, actually.

And then he realizes Arthur's earlier implications. _No_, he thinks sadly, in agreement. _A movie or a dinner date won't be appropriate. People will notice us. They'll draw conclusions. We can't . . . we can't act the way we want to act towards each other in public. That's going to be one of the major drawbacks of our "relationship."_ Out loud, he says, "Do you have any suggestions for what we could do for a . . . date?"

"Uhm . . ." Arthur thinks, taking a seat next to Alfred on the bench. He's stiff at first, but he slowly feels himself relax as he contemplates their options. "You have a car, right? Drive us somewhere we won't be seen. Or you could come over to my place, you know that my parents are out of the country. I don't need you to impress me."

"Your place?" Alfred echoes. He crosses his legs. Uncrosses them. Re-crosses them with the opposite one on top. The thought of going to Arthur's house with Arthur seems a lot less potentially damaging than a date in public, but . . . "Are — are you sure? I hope I'm not, you know, jumping the gun, but . . . we might end up . . . doing stuff that you might not be comfortable with . . . if we go to your house. And you said something about brothers last night." The memory of _last night _makes his cheeks warm for what feels like the thirtieth time. "They won't be home?"

"They're all back in the UK," Arthur says. There's a brief moment of quietness between the two before Arthur chuckles. "And don't worry, I've had more time that one night to reflect on what I want from you," he almost purrs, glad that he feels himself slipping into his more relaxed state. He's not used to being nervous, but he supposes that's just another thing Alfred does to him.

Alfred lights up. He's not a horn-dog (at least, not normally), but it's really hard not to be excited when your lover/boyfriend/student tells you that he's willing to have sex. "O-okay. As long as it's fine with you." Another awkward pause. "So . . . um, I know you said the weekend, but . . . should we . . . go now? My car's parked in the front lot, but I don't think anyone will see us . . . and if they do, I'll just say I'm driving you home." Which isn't too far from the truth — though it's still technically a lie, since just dropping Arthur off is not _all_ they're going to do. But remembering last night's pleasure thrilling through his veins makes Alfred disregard his earlier guilt for the moment and just revel in the happiness welling up inside his chest. "I mean, we don't have to, if you're busy . . . we can still keep it on the weekend and I'll just drop you off today. . . . But will now work?"

With a nod, Arthur pushes himself up from the bench and helps Alfred up too. "Now is fine." _This is _it, he thinks to himself idly as he walks along side the American. _I suppose this means we're dating. Teacher and student . . . how very scandalous._

He's relieved that the bulk of the students has already left and let the two of them get into Alfred's car without any raised suspicion. His nose crinkles in distaste as the strong smell of McDonald's and air freshener hits him as soon as he opens the passenger's seat door. Not a very pleasant combination.

Glancing over at Arthur, Alfred has the grace to feel slightly embarrassed. But he can't deny that the way Arthur scrunches up his nose is . . . really, really adorable. Kind of like a bunny rabbit. He smiles to himself as he drops his bag in the back and slides behind the wheel. Arthur's still standing there looking somewhat scandalized, and Alfred realizes it's because there's a handful of wrappers (of all sorts) piled up on the passenger seat. With a sheepish, apologetic grin, he sweeps them up and dumps them in the back with his bag, out of the way.

_God, I hope my car hasn't scarred the poor kid_, he thinks, half-seriously, as he turns the key in the ignition. _I'll have to do some cleaning for next time . . . maybe vacuum the whole interior . . . _He asks Arthur for directions, then pulls out of the lot. Somewhere down the road — at a stop sign or a stoplight or maybe just while he's driving — he feels warmth on his right hand, and glances down. Arthur's slender white fingers are intertwined with his over the gear shift; there is a light blush dusting the teen's face, and he's pointedly looking out the window and not at Alfred, but Alfred still feels like his heart is soaring (like a godawful cliché, but there's a _reason_ it's a cliché, right?).

He gives Arthur's hand a gentle squeeze that says, _This feels right_, and when Arthur doesn't pull away, Alfred settles contently with driving one-handed. He wonders if he's Arthur's first partner, but mostly he keeps his thoughts simple, and just thinks about how good it feels to hold hands with the person he likes (something he hasn't done in an eternity). He'd forgotten how nice it is to be a teenager and in love, and remembering it feels a little like heaven.

The dappled sky clouds up on their way to Arthur's home, and by the time they arrive the rain is battering against the car windows, completely overshadowing the warm sun and serene blue. Arthur hears Alfred let out a huff at the unexpected turn, but if Arthur is to be completely honest with himself, he rather likes the rain.

"Are you ready?" Arthur asks as Alfred pulls into the empty driveway and turns off the engine. There is a brief, quite pause where only the muffled sound of the pattering rain is heard before the American nods, hums and pulls himself out of the car. Arthur follows close behind and rushes to unlock the front door.

Even in the five seconds it takes to get inside, the rain manages to soak through most of Alfred's clothing, even his hair. _Freak rainstorms in the spring . . . God_, he thinks, wincing, as he steps over the threshold and drips water all over the nice marble floor. He hears Arthur quickly shut the door behind him, and the torrential patter of rain is muted. Turning around to get his wet sneakers off, Alfred looks up — and is greeted by the sight of a very wet, very flustered-looking Arthur. His shirt, transparent from the rain, clearly exposes his upper body, his nipples a faint pink against the white canvas of his skin under the damp fabric. His soaked tie dangles uselessly down the center of his chest and helps to hide absolutely nothing.

It's one of the hottest things Alfred has ever seen. _Holy crap_, he thinks, mind bordering on incoherence, a flush working its way up into his face.

Arthur's cheeks heat up somewhat at Alfred's rather obvious staring. "The lounge is just down the hall," he murmurs. "You can turn on the fire and . . . dry off. I need to get a change of clothes." With that, he quickly dashes up the stairs and leaves the American by himself.

Alfred stands there for a moment, trying to regain his bearings. He can't deny his slight disappointment in Arthur's hasty departure. _Might as well go find the fireplace_, he reasons, and heads off in the direction Arthur had indicated. The décor in the living room is really nice — a burgundy color-scheme with antique couches that proudly showcase Arthur's family's wealth. Pictures with gleaming, expensive frames line the walls; a tasteful assortment of figurines glitter and shine on shelves and low tables. Alfred thinks of his modest little apartment, and feels humbled.

His wet clothes are beginning to feel extremely uncomfortable. After a second of searching, he finds the switch for the fireplace and turns it on, then — after a little hesitation — pulls his shirt off before sitting down on the rug in front of the fire. The cotton will dry faster off his body, he reasons.

Arthur's footsteps from upstairs can be heard a few minutes later and soon the teenager makes his way into the lounge wearing a pair of button up pajamas. Arthur's eyes instantly lock onto Alfred's bare back. He bites his lip as he takes in the sight of his teacher wearing only a pair of jeans (and nude from the waist up). "Are you drying off all right?"

Alfred jumps at the sound of Arthur's voice. "Huh? Oh, yeah." He thinks, _Wow, that was fast_, and swivels his head. And sees Arthur wearing a set of flannel pajamas. Oh, God, he looks so adorable and intimate and impossibly sexy in them, standing in the middle of the living room, blond hair ruffled just so. Alfred swallows. It's only when he notices Arthur's eyes roving over him that he realizes he's still naked from the waist up. "Um, my shirt's soaked . . . is it okay if I let it dry off in front of the fire for a bit?"

"Uh. Yeah," Arthur murmurs, averting his eyes with a flush. "I'll go get you a towel."

He comes back a few moments later with a large towel and settles himself behind the older man. He feels Alfred flinch when he starts working on drying his hair but he keeps going, gently pressing the water from the gold locks. Such a simple action seems so intimate, but relaxing and comforting. The heat from Alfred's bare back is exciting, though. Arthur fights with his will to not press himself up against the strong muscles.

Arthur's hands on his head, even through the towel, feel so _good_. Alfred sighs as those slender fingers scrub his hair and massage his scalp. He hadn't expected Arthur to make so bold a move, and it'd surprised him, but it's the good kind of surprise. He lets the tension seep out of his muscles. Arthur's ministrations aren't too rough, or hard — a bit timid at first, in fact — but they slowly become more sure, more steady, as his hands work the towel. At one point, Alfred feels Arthur's fingertips accidentally slip under the towel and brush the back of his ear, one of the most sensitive parts on his body. Before he can stop it, a breath of air escapes his mouth. Not quite a moan, but . . . jeez, it's embarrassing. He's twenty-eight, for God's sake, not an adolescent like Arthur anymore — far from it. Yet . . . how does Arthur manage to turn him on so easily, so effortlessly?

The quiet gasp is like music to Arthur's ears. He'll never know why pleasing his teacher excites him the way it does, and he'll never understand why his teacher's voice is enough for him to disregard his hesitance. His slender hands slow to a stop before he lets the towel slip from his grasp. There's a suspenseful moment when Arthur is unsure of what he's doing, why he's stopped, what is going to happen next — but all those questions are resolved as his soft, pale hands move down to Alfred's neck, shoulders, caressing the bare, tanned skin of his collarbones. Arthur's lips press against Alfred's scalp as he presses his chest to his teacher's back.

Alfred twitches. Is that Arthur's mouth on the back of his head, and his hands on his shoulders? His body against his back? He feels thumbs dig gently into his flesh and he shivers, tingles fluttering through his skin. It feels amazing to be touched like this. To be touched by _Arthur_. The subtle shift in Arthur's demeanor is both a surprise and a relief, the sound of the towel sliding to the rug a catalyst for something else, something _more_. Alfred feels like he's been waiting for forever — because he realizes that no matter what they'll end up doing, he'll always let Arthur set the pace, adjust the comfort level, move them along however he wants, no matter how desperately he himself wants to press onward.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thinks hazily, _So much for the "date," huh?_

It's at times like these that Arthur is reminded of how wrong, how dangerous this is — but it is also at times like these that he comes to terms with the reality that he simply doesn't care. It makes him wonder, really, why he finds himself so reckless around Alfred, why he finds himself so blatantly disregarding the rules.

"Alfred," he whispers into the Alfred's ear, running his hands down the man's strong, muscular arms. "Alfred, touch me," he breathes, daringly. "I want you to touch me."

He is neglected, that's it. A poor, lonely child starved of the attention that he desperately craves. Parents always gone, brothers far away, cooped up in this lonely home while he watches the world go by. Alfred is the only one to offer his time, so of course Arthur would cling to it like a lifeline.

"Where?" Alfred asks, voice equally soft. He can't bring himself to back out, because he doesn't _want_ to back out. Arthur's breath is so warm against the shell of his ear. He tells himself that he'll only want what Arthur wants, and nothing more.

"Anywhere," Arthur whispers, pulling Alfred back onto the floor before straddling him, one leg on either side. "Everywhere." He runs his hands up Alfred's bare chest, eyes drinking in the sight of the taut muscles and dark skin.

Disoriented by the sudden position switch, Alfred blinks up at Arthur, then quickly regains his bearings when Arthur's slim hands make a thorough exploration of his chest. His body is beginning to fully come to life under Arthur's weight and attention, senses brightened by the comfortable settle of Arthur's backside against his abdomen and by his roaming hands. "Okay."

Fingers trembling slightly, he reaches up and undoes the flat, pearly buttons of Arthur's pajama top, one by one, each slick against his fingertips as the flannel falls away to reveal, in all its pale, breathless glory, the perfection had been only hinted at through the drenched shirt Arthur had been wearing earlier.

Once he has enough room, Alfred slides his hands inside the garment, ghosting over Arthur's waist and his ribcage (feeling it expand and contract with Arthur's every breath), up to his nipples. _He likes to have those played with, if I can remember right_, he thinks, and takes a bud between each thumb and forefinger, rolling them lightly. He starts losing control of himself when the teen atop him reacts more favorably than he'd expected.

Arthur gasps and writhes under his teacher's touch, body going taut and hands going still as Alfred's fingers play with his sensitive nipples. "Harder," he gasps and lets out a choked cry as his teacher pinches and tugs on the swollen nubs. The feeling is sharp, sudden — almost painful, but Arthur finds himself very much enjoying the sensation as his hips buck and grind in response.

He feels Alfred's cock hardening through the denim beneath him, and it's almost embarrassing that his wanton moans are enough to turn his teacher on so much, but it's exciting, too — being able to turn Alfred on like that. Arthur's heart races with a sense of pride.

Alfred doesn't think he'll ever tire of Arthur's voice, heady with lust. He pulls at Arthur's nipples, plucks at them, careful not to hurt him but using the strength in his fingertips to drive the teen higher and higher into a state of feverish arousal. The movements of Arthur's hips are jerky and bordering on wild; it's so damn arousing, watching him bounce about and mewl like a cat in heat, unable to control himself. _He's so young and horny_, Alfred thinks appreciatively. His guilt is a distant memory. Letting go of Arthur's nipples, he slides his hands down, grasps the edge of Arthur's pajama bottoms. He can feel the outline of Arthur's erection, hard against his knuckles.

Guided by Alfred's touch, Arthur slides his pajama bottoms off, albeit somewhat awkwardly considering their current position, and reveals his entire body to his teacher, pale and supple and tense with arousal. He is wearing no underwear, though why would he when he'd been hoping to be taking them off anyway? He leans down and presses his lips to Alfred's with feeling.

Alfred opens his mouth to probe the inside of Arthur's, but before he has the chance, he feels Arthur press in with his tongue, insistent and demanding and not even a tiny bit shy. He smiles slightly at Arthur's enthusiasm (to think the calm, collected Arthur Kirkland would lose his cool over _him_!) and surrenders control over the kiss. He has something else in mind.

With Arthur's pajama bottoms gone, the teen is exposed and his bare skin is available for touching. Alfred really, really wants him to enjoy this; he's willing to do anything to make sure of that. Closing his eyes, he places his hands behind Arthur's knees, smoothly trailing them up the backs of Arthur's thighs to caress his rump. Then, with more daring, he runs the very tips of his fingers between Arthur's cheeks and toys with the tender skin there, careful not to stick his fingers where they're not wanted (just yet).

Arthur shivers with delight and moans into the kiss, his legs trembling under the teasing touches. Alfred's hands are large, strong and calloused against his skin and it's intoxicating. His body shies away from the touches on instinct, but it isn't long before he finds himself relaxing and wanting more. More of his teacher. More of Alfred.

"Hahh . . . ," he breathes out as he breaks the kiss and buries his face into the crook of Alfred's neck. He feels as if he should fight it more, put up more resistance; he's Arthur Kirkland and he does not give in so easily . . . but what's the harm in just indulging for a while? Just for a bit?

Alfred curls his fingers, rubs his knuckles against Arthur instead of his fingertips. "Does that feel good?" he asks softly. He's sure it does, if how Arthur's reacting is any indication, but he just wants to hear it from Arthur's own mouth. Arthur's turned him into such a tease.

"M-mhm, yes . . . ," Arthur breathes, cheeks stained dark with arousal. The feeling is so teasing, so unbearably exciting and he can't help but want more, can't help but think of all of the lewd things he wants to do and try, but doesn't have the nerve to say out loud (yet). He never wants the feeling to end and also wants it over with because he just feels so unbelievably horny already that it's driving him mad.

"Good." Alfred reaches for Arthur's face and cups it with his hands, lifting him from the side of his neck so that they can kiss again. As their lips meet in the middle, Alfred thinks he feels Arthur trembling a little — but not from cold, even though he's naked. Arthur's cock is pressed firmly against Alfred's stomach, and it's so unmistakably hard and hot that Alfred wonders how long they can keep doing this — keep easing at such a torturously slow pace through foreplay — before Arthur can't stand it anymore.

"My bedroom," Arthur breathes between kisses, pulling Alfred up into a sitting position and wrapping his arms around the man's shoulders. He moves to nip and suckle on Alfred's ear teasingly. He may be lacking in experience, but he still has a few tricks up his sleeve. "Take me to my bedroom, sir . . . and you can do what you want to me . . ."

_Oh, Jesus. That's sexy._ Alfred licks the part of Arthur he can reach — the underside of his jaw. He bites his lip when he feels teeth on his ear; God, that feels good. His ears are sensitive. He wants to say, "You're so hot" or "I want you" or, at the very least, "Okay," but what comes out instead is a light chuckle and "Since when did you start calling me 'sir'?" To cover up his chagrin, he reaches up and gently ruffles Arthur's hair, an affectionate gesture that he really puts his heart into. He loves the feel of Arthur's soft, somewhat spiky locks, two shades lighter than his own.

Arthur blushes, but this time out of embarrassment. "Oi, stop that," he grunts, but smirks shyly nonetheless. He won't say it out loud, but he loves Alfred's touches and attention, whether they're sweet or lusty or both.

Laughing, Alfred places a kiss on the bob of Arthur's Adam's apple. "Okay, okay. Let's go."

Arthur grins cheekily and seats himself across Alfred's lap. "Carry me, Mr. Jones. You're strong enough, right?"

Alfred can't help grinning back, and he complies, gathering Arthur up in his arms and rising to his feet. Arthur's skin is slightly cool against his own — probably from being exposed to the air for so long. He cradles the teen to his chest bridal-style as he heads for the stairs. The shirt and Arthur's flannel pajamas are left forgotten by the fireplace, and all Alfred can do is sneak glances down at Arthur's still-hard cock bobbing gently between his legs and think, _Oh jeez, so we're finally gonna have sex, huh?_

Arthur directs Alfred upstairs and into his bedroom where he feels his nerves catch up with him. He's not scared, he trusts Alfred — but he's nervous. He tries not to let it show as Alfred lays him on his bed (notably too large for just one person — but Arthur is a wriggler and always found himself falling out of his single bed as a child).

"Do you have the essentials?" he asks hesitantly.

Alfred pauses as he moves to hover over Arthur. "Crap. They're in my car." In the pouring rain. Is this fate's way of telling them that they shouldn't . . . ?

Arthur tuts and rolls his eyes. "Well then, go get them, Mister Muscle," he teases and leans back into his mound of fluffy pillows. Crossing one leg over the other, he shoots his teacher a seductive, sultry smirk that seems to radiate a false sense of confidence, but it's convincing nonetheless.

"O-okay." Mentally preparing himself for the excursion out into the rain again, Alfred reluctantly leaves Arthur lying (oh-so-temptingly) on the bed. He forgets that he's shirtless until he steps outside into the downpour — the cold rainwater on his bare skin is a sudden shock — but he unlocks the car, digs out his gym bag, and hurries back inside the house, hoping sheepishly that none of Arthur's neighbors are looking out their windows. He finds his way back up to Arthur's bedroom without too much difficulty and, dropping the gym bag on the floor near the bed, crawls up onto the bed again to kiss Arthur.

His attachment to Arthur is growing stronger. It's so wrong, but so, so addicting.

Arthur exhales with delight and wraps his arms around Alfred's strong shoulders, fingers tangling into the now soaking blonde locks. "Has anyone ever told you how . . . positively _gorgeous_you look when you're wet, Mr Jones?" he breathes out as their mouths separate. Arthur's hands slide down Alfred's wet arms and the teen shivers, feeling his skin prickle with goosebumps and letting out a hum of pleasure.

"No, but . . . th-thanks." Alfred blushes. It's true; he's never been complimented like that before, and he feels like he's glowing from it. He takes one of Arthur's hands and, feeling absolutely smitten and caught up in the moment, places a kiss on his knuckles before slowly making his way to Arthur's wrist, then up his arm, pressing his lips to the smooth skin with gentle pressure. He makes sure to use his tongue, too, and glances up at Arthur's face to watch his reaction as he licks a trail down to Arthur's elbow. Arthur tastes like rain and . . . well, Alfred can't really put a name to it, but it turns him on. A lot.

Arthur's breath catches in his throat at the intimate gesture and he blushes profusely, feeling his cock twitch as Alfred's tongue maps his pale skin. He's never been touched like that before, never had so much care and attention directed at him. It's like something straight from a romance novel or Hollywood film, and Arthur finds that he likes that very much. He looks down at Alfred with hooded eyes, teeth biting at his lips. Who would have known that his teacher is so . . . romantic?

Having worked his way up to Arthur's shoulder, Alfred moves to the white skin of his neck and latches on, using a small bit of teeth. _No marks_, he thinks to himself. _Don't want people wondering who he's getting hickeys from._

Eyes fluttering closed, Arthur lets out a shaky exhale as his legs tremble with a mix of pleasure and the cold air. "Take off your trousers," he whispers, voice cutting off into a moan as Alfred's teeth nip _just _the right spot. He wants to please Alfred, too. He wants to look at him and admire him and get rid of the barriers between their bodies.

Alfred pulls away. "Trousers?" he repeats, confused. "Oh, right. Pants." He unfastens the button of his jeans, pulls the zipper down, begins to work everything down his hips. It's hardly romantic — a bit haphazard, actually — but it's the best he can do at the moment because his hands are shaking. From what, he's not quite sure, but it's a heady blend and he finds that he doesn't mind being swept away by it. He looks at Arthur for a second, secretly (kind of guiltily) hoping that he'll offer to help.

Arthur can't stop himself from smiling at his teacher's clumsy attempts to undress. It's endearing, so much so that he finds it impossible to even pretend to be frustrated. He watches Alfred struggle with the tricky, wet clothing for a while longer before he simply pushes him onto his back. Ignoring the yelp of surprise from the man, Arthur pulls Alfred's jeans off by the legs and leaves him in his briefs, which he quickly removes after taking a moment to admire Alfred's strong thighs.

Alfred's cock, now plain as day and unhidden by the shadows on the field from the night before, is one of the sexiest things Arthur has seen up to this point. It's perfect — flawless — and Arthur can't help but admire everything from its enviable length and thickness to the way pre-cum leaks from the slit.

_He's staring. Oh, jeez. Does he . . . like what he sees?_ Alfred wonders. All of a sudden, he feels timid and inadequate. Is he not good enough for Arthur? Has he ultimately failed to meet his standards? To hide his momentary lapse, he decides to try out something he's always wanted to do (especially with _Arthur_). He reaches out, carefully takes Arthur's dick in hand, and aligns it with his own. Once they're pressed together (it's so warm, and it feels unbelievably good), he closes his fist around them both and gives a drawn-out, tentative stroke, just to test the waters.

And oh, God, does it send electricity through him. He actually feels Arthur's cock jump a little in his hand, and he squeezes his fingers, absolutely loving this new kind of contact.

"Oh God —" Arthur gasps, back arching out as his body flushes hot with pleasure. Alfred's hand around his cock, mixed with the sensation of Alfred's own erection, is all kinds of sexy and pleasurable. "Alfred," he moans, bracing his hands on his teacher's chest. He grinds downwards, momentarily forgetting all about his nervousness.

"Arthur," Alfred exhales, starting to match him moan for moan. He uses his other hand to wind around Arthur's lower back, above his tailbone, and pushes the teen's hips closer. He wholeheartedly welcomes it when Arthur sprawls on top of him. Their erections are trapped between them, but it's fine, because now Alfred can feel himself pressing upward into Arthur's pelvis as well as against his dick.

"_Alfred_," Arthur moans once more, eyes screwed shut in pure bliss. His hands tangle in Alfred's hair once again as he breathes hotly into his ear, hips meeting the man's every stroke with a trembling thrust. "You're so big," he breathes. "I want . . . I want you to fuck me." What on Earth is he saying? He can hardly think straight with the pleasure and excitement and heat of the moment.

Alfred's grip tightens. God, he'll never be able to seriously express in words how much he wants to do _just that_, especially with Arthur so close and open and aroused, but . . .

It clicks in his head that he _can't_, not yet, for so many reasons. Arthur is so young, so lost in his hormonal fever, and they've only really known each other for a few days . . . as good as the sexual stuff feels, Alfred thinks it would be a lot smarter to hold off on that kind of thing and maybe just stick with . . . _non-penetrative_ acts if it really gets to be too much to handle. He's never been into one-night stands, and at this point, this is what their relationship feels like. A growing series of meetings to sort-of-not-really have sex. Alfred wants to appreciate Arthur as a person, not just a "fuck buddy." He's sure there's still so, so much to learn about Arthur and his life and his personality and his preferences . . . and he won't get to know any of it, not if they keep continuing like this.

Plus, isn't this supposed to be a date to prove to Arthur that he's not here just for the sex?

He wonders how to tell Arthur that he doesn't want to go that far. He's sure Arthur'll be upset with him — but it has to be said. Alfred's supposed to be the adult, after all, isn't he?

"Arthur," Alfred begins after taking a deep breath. He lets go of them, his hand retreating. "I . . . um . . . I really do want you and everything, but . . . I think we're moving a bit too fast. Could we maybe . . . slow it down a bit?" He waits nervously for Arthur's response as he watches his words sink in.

Arthur feels disappointment sink into him and leave a heavy weight in his chest. Alfred is right; he may want this now, but what if he regrets it later? He's young, inexperienced, and even though he's mature for his age, he knows he can impulsively jump to decisions without thinking just like the next teen. He wants his first time to be as sappy as the romance in his books, and he wants to get to know his teacher far better than he does now (and he's sure Alfred feels the same). Arthur knows Alfred is making a sensible decision — and deep down he understands completely — but his pride is hurt and he can't help but feel foolish. He lets indignation cover up his insecurity.

"What are you, a girl?" he huffs, sitting up to straddle his teacher's hips once again. His brows are knitted together and his cheeks are now pink with embarrassment instead of arousal. "Pansy." he tuts, whipping his head to the side.

Alfred presses his lips together. It's a great time for Arthur to show the immaturity known to every teenager, huh? "No, I'm not a girl. I think you should know that by now." He takes Arthur by the wrist, guides his hand downward, where it's more than obvious he's a full-grown male. He continues, his voice softer, "Arthur, this isn't just about me, you know?"

Arthur blushes darkly and tenses. ". . . You're right," he says after a moment, anger replaced with bashfulness. "I'm . . . I'm sorry." He struggles with his words, visibly wilting. "I raised the suggestion that we get to know each other . . . and yet I'm the one getting far too ahead of myself." Wringing the bed sheets beneath them, Arthur looks at everything but Alfred. "Thanks for not . . . taking advantage me," he murmurs, finally meeting Alfred's gaze. It's plain to see exactly what Arthur is at that moment: a young man too wise beyond his years and a slave to his hormones.

Alfred's not entirely sure how to reply to that. He flushes and settles on, "I wouldn't ever do that to you." He reaches up to cup Arthur's face with his hands, slow and caring. "Don't be too hard on yourself," he says gently. "I know what it's like for you — I used to be a teenager too, remember?" He winces inwardly at the reminder of the age gap between them and quickly moves on. "We can still, you know . . . do things. Just no sex for now, okay? I don't think either of us is ready for that yet." He leans up and places a kiss on Arthur's nose.

"Mhm," Arthur hums, scrunching up his nose a bit at the kiss. The tenderness is sort of embarrassing, but he'd be lying if he says he doesn't like it. "So . . . what now?" he asks, glancing down at Alfred's rather, er, large problem.

"Whatever you're comfortable with." Alfred draws him into a real kiss, holding him against his chest. He pulls back. Studies Arthur's face.

"I, er . . ." Arthur's words are nothing more than a mumble, the lust that drove him to his lewd actions earlier mostly gone. "I want to, uhm, touch you," he says quietly. "Just a little . . ."

Alfred eases him back up, keeping a firm hold on his narrow waist. "Okay." He wonders what Arthur has in mind. Now that they've gotten past the first hurdle (mostly), he feels like he's in no hurry. He still wants to enjoy their time together (and he wants Arthur to enjoy it, too).

Arthur takes a deep breath and lies down at Alfred's side, resting his head on the strong, tanned chest. The steady thrum of Alfred's heart is so soothing. His soft hands trace patterns over Alfred's abs, silently admiring. "It's kind of boring in this house," he says suddenly.

It's a pretty random statement, but . . . Alfred can understand where he's coming from. To live in such a large place all by oneself . . . it's bound to get that way sometimes. He runs his hand up and down Arthur's spine, then absently begins to massage his backside. "Does it . . . make you lonely?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I love being by myself," says Arthur, words coming out in a bit of a rush. He falls into silence, fidgets a bit, and sighs. ". . . All right, yes. Yes, it does get lonely."

"Tell me about it?" Alfred hasn't mastered reading Arthur's moods yet, but he can tell that Arthur wants someone to talk to. Sliding his hands farther south, he cups the undersides of Arthur's thighs and strokes the skin in soothing motions. His aim isn't to arouse, but to comfort.

Arthur lets out a huff of frustration — not at Alfred, but at whatever he's thinking about. Funny how a teenager's mood can chop and change so often. They'd been frotting a moment ago — what happened? "My entire family is back in England, and my parents are gone every other month. More often than not I'm . . . by myself," he says, forcing the last words out as if they are painful to admit. "When I'm bored, I'll study. Or I'll read, or write, or knit — gardening, cooking, cleaning — I've done it all so often that there's hardly an ounce of fun in it anymore."

Alfred is hit by a sudden pang of sympathy. Almost pity, but he doesn't let that particular emotion take root for long. After all, he lives alone himself, doesn't he? "Sounds like a pretty productive life to me." He sighs. "I get where you're coming from about being lonely and not having anything to do, though. I don't live with anyone either — my brother's up in Canada with his wife, and I only see my parents a few times a year. I guess that's why I throw all of my energy into teaching at school." _Because it helps me take my mind off the fact that I'm always alone at home._

Arthur hums his sympathy, and they lie in silence for a few moments, processing the information they'd both received.

"I . . . probably shouldn't have told you all of that. That was weird," the teen mumbles after a while, cheeks tinting a bit.

"No, not at all. Now I know you better, and I got to tell you something about me, too. Thanks for . . . you know, confiding in me." Alfred hugs him again, pressing his face into Arthur's neck and feeling the tickle of his hair on his cheekbone.

"I-I figured we'd have to start somewhere," Arthur babbles, feeling flustered and fidgety as Alfred nuzzles him. "And I just — well, you know what I mean . . ."

Alfred chuckles. "Yup, I do." He pauses, breathes in the scent of Arthur's skin. It's certainly been kind of weird for a getting-to-know-each-other "first date," but hey, it's with Arthur, so he'll take what he can get. A normal relationship doesn't seem to fit them, anyway.

"So . . . is there anything you want to do now?" he asks, reaching up to slip his hands through Arthur's blond locks and caress the slight hollow behind Arthur's ear on the way.

"I think I've been indulgent enough," Arthur admits rather shyly. "Why don't you decide?"

"Okay." Alfred brings his face closer and kisses him. This kiss is slow, steady, nothing at all like the frantic making out they were doing earlier. He keeps his lips together, tongue in check. He still wants Arthur, but this time, the wanting is different — yes, part of it is still carnal, and his nether regions are waking up again, but he mostly just wants the two of them to be _close_. It's hard to explain, even to himself. All he knows is that in that moment, full-blown sex doesn't seem so important anymore. He cradles Arthur's chin in one hand and closes his eyes, letting their mouths press and slide against each other without the drive to dominate or take control.

A content sigh escapes Arthur, and he relaxes. He feels like he can melt into the sheets at how tender Alfred is and how great it feels. It's so strange and new to feel so desired, so wanted. He feels his excitement growing as well as his urge to cling to Alfred — because attention is something he's so unused to and he craves it like nothing else — but he forces himself to settle, to relax. He doesn't want to rush. There's no need to.

Feeling Arthur's body become more receptive to his touches, Alfred turns them both so that they're on their sides on the bed. Keeping a hand around Arthur's waist, he reaches down to tweak Arthur's nipple, then slides his fingers all the way down into the trail of soft pubic hair and begins rubbing a pattern of teasing circles around Arthur's cock. _Slow and steady_, he reminds himself, fingertips hot with the warmth from Arthur's skin. _We're not strangers anymore — at least, not as much as we were before. We can take it easy._

Arthur takes in a quivering breath and nuzzles himself under Alfred's chin. "You tease," he huffs out, though he can't bring himself to truly be annoyed when he hears Alfred chuckle above him. Feeling competitive, he slides his leg up to brush against Alfred's cock teasingly. Alfred's sharp gasp is sweet to his ears.

And Arthur calls _him_ a tease? Alfred scoots closer — so close that he can feel them pressing together down the lengths of their bodies — and, once again, begins to rub his dick against Arthur's. His vitality is returning. So is Arthur's, it seems, if the way Arthur grinds back is any indication. The teen fits almost perfectly in his arms — he's neither too compact nor too long-limbed, and he's slender and supple as a willow. Just the right size and shape.

Arthur wraps his arm around Alfred's shoulders and slings his leg around his waist in an attempt to pull him in closer and presses their chests together, working with the older man as they rock their hips together. His breathing is heavy and his eyes are lidded with arousal. Even the sound of the bed sheets rustling beneath them sets Arthur off. It's so scandalous and new and Arthur loves every bit of it.

Their rhythm is unpredictable and somewhat sloppy, but Alfred doesn't mind, because it's solid and savoring and he can tell he's going to come from it anyway. He wonders if Arthur feels the same, reaches down to check how he's doing. They're both rock-hard. Arthur's heel digs into the small of his back, his inner thigh and calf tight around him, his touch reassuring and hot in its certainty.

Unable to help himself, Alfred dips his hand under Arthur's bottom and begins to vigorously rub his fingertips against the pucker between his cheeks. He doesn't put his fingers in — makes sure to stay outside the ring of muscle even as he spreads and stretches and teases it — but he's not beyond wanting Arthur to want it. Somewhere in his head, he wonders if Arthur can come from just having his ass played with.

Alfred's touch is sudden and unexpected and Arthur can't hold in the moan that rips from his throat. Having Alfred's fingers there, of all places, is so genuinely erotic and his cheeks burn at the feeling. Oh, how he wants Alfred to take it further, how he longs for him to press his fingers into him and ravish him until he can't think — however painful that would be. But he says nothing. He's learned his lesson, and he knows this isn't something to be rushed. However, he can't help but wonder if, deep down, Alfred feels just as crazy for him as he does for Alfred. It's embarrassing, but Arthur thinks he might just come from the thought.

Alfred shifts a few degrees and anchors Arthur's leg more securely over his side, their skin gliding together from sweat, the movement smearing Arthur's pre-cum over the groove of his hip. It feels like they've both been near the edge forever; Alfred doesn't know how much more he can take. More desperate now, he moves the hand that's not busy fondling Arthur's ass to both of their cocks, squeezing them together again and pumping with a grip so tight it almost hurts.

"Alfred —" Arthur gasps and moans loudly. He can feel the pooling and knotting in his groin grow more intense as his orgasm nears and he can't stop himself from cupping Alfred's face in his hands and kissing him firmly, the action muffling his voice as he finally slips over the edge and comes hard over Alfred's hand and stomach in a muddle of harsh gasps and whimpers.

Alfred feels a burst of warm wetness on him and Arthur shuddering against his chest, and knows that Arthur's done. He himself is still several nudges away from his own climax, though. In the heat of the moment — after Arthur breaks the kiss with an exhausted sigh and his cum drips down between them to puddle on the sheets — Alfred gasps without thinking twice, "Arthur, I'm still . . . I'm so close . . . c-can you use your mouth on me?"

"Huh . . . ?" Arthur is still lost in the midst of his post-orgasmic haze. The words take a moment to sink in, but when they do, he blushes hard. "Y-you want me to . . . suck you off?" He looks at his teacher, and sees the very obvious conflict of arousal and guilt in his eyes. Arthur bites his lip before sliding down, wrapping his fingers around Alfred's cock and closing his lips around the head.

The sensation of Alfred pressing against his tongue is odd and the taste is bitter, but Arthur can't say he minds much. He doesn't really know what he's doing but he settles for bobbing his head and sucking, trying to push the cock as far into his mouth as it will go.

It's more than enough. Alfred opens his mouth to warn Arthur that he's coming, but he breaks off after the first syllable and ends up sputtering his name instead. His hands travel down to curl into Arthur's damp, sweaty hair as his muscles lock. He jerks his hips once, twice, tumbling over the brink and landing hard, before he drops back onto the mattress with his nerves still tingling and breathing uneven.

Arthur's shocked by the feeling of Alfred's semen filling his mouth and chokes as some of it goes down his throat. He's unsure of what to do and in a brief moment of panic he swallows the rest of the sticky substance in his mouth, coughing hard when he's finally able to draw a breath in again.

Snapping to his senses, Alfred quickly sits up, wincing as blood rushes to his head. "Oh God — I'm so sorry — you didn't have to — I was going to warn you, but — are you okay?" he finally settles on, worried, as Arthur practically hacks up a lung. In hindsight, he can't believe he asked Arthur to do something like that. They just finished agreeing to take it slow, didn't they? _I'm so . . . so impulsive and irresponsible . . . _Alfred twists the sheets in his hands, regret rapidly welling up to overtake the glow of his orgasm. He sees some of the fluid trickle down Arthur's chin — some of _his_ fluid — and feels even worse. Is it just his imagination, or does Arthur look even younger than he really is, with his hair mussed up and cheeks rosy and mouth dripping with cum?

"It's okay. It wasn't terrible," Arthur manages to choke out, voice raspy. He can see the regret in Alfred's face as clear as day and it makes his heart ache painfully. Suddenly needing something to do, he leaves Alfred on the bed to rifle through his wardrobe for something to put on. He settles for a pair of black jeans and an old shirt. "I think you're right about pacing ourselves, though." He doesn't look at Alfred, but he can tell he's consumed with guilt. "We can, uhm, pretend this didn't happen if you want."

He feels himself regretting, too. Didn't Alfred enjoy it? It's always said that men like eager partners. He isn't experienced, but he's relatively confident he's attractive enough. He simmers in his thoughts for a moment before becoming angry at himself.

Obviously Alfred is regretting, but he's angry at himself, not Arthur. It isn't that Arthur isn't experienced enough, or unattractive or not good enough. It's that Alfred is struggling to cope with his guilt for seducing his student into bed. Suddenly Arthur can understand his distress very well: he'd just dragged his teacher into his bed and frotted with him for nearly half an hour and practically begged to be fucked when he was so adamant this morning that they'd meet up and sort everything out. Maybe . . . maybe it could have gone better.

"I'm sorry . . . ," he says suddenly and turns to face Alfred, trying to keep a stoic expression, though the look in his eyes gives it all away. "I didn't . . . it wasn't my intention to . . . have you so conflicted."

Pulling the covers over his naked lap, Alfred reaches off the edge of the bed for his jeans. "Please, don't apologize . . . it's my fault." And it is. Because he's the one over eighteen, the one who _wasn't responsible enough_. He looks away as Arthur gets dressed and works on pulling his clothes on himself. "I'm really sorry. I . . . I don't want to pretend it never happened, because . . ." He can't find it in himself to finish the sentence; he doesn't know if he'll be able to take it if Arthur shoots him down. "Well, I don't want to pretend, but if you do . . . I get it. Really."

He wonders if Arthur suggested that because he really does regret the fact that they got sexual with each other. The thought makes something inside him shrink and sting. He works his briefs and jeans back on and looks around for his shirt before remembering that it's still downstairs. "Um . . . I'm going to go get my shirt. I'll be right back . . ." Feeling like a coward, Alfred leaves the room.

Arthur lets out a heavy sigh and starts to smooth out his bed sheets. He notices the stained quilt cover and blushes. God, the both of them are really hopeless sometimes. He sits in the middle of his bed and waits for Alfred, feeling more anxious by the second.

Alfred's shirt is exactly where they'd left it — next to the fireplace, in a heap with Arthur's discarded pajamas. Seeing them evokes a twinge in Alfred's chest. He'd been hoping (rather ridiculously) that somehow it'd be okay for him to stay the night, that maybe Arthur would invite him to do just that, but he's just being stupid now. There's no way that would happen, and it's not like he'd be able to accept anyway without hating himself. Thoughts in a turmoil, Alfred pulls his shirt on — it's still damp, but he doesn't care anymore — and hesitates. He doesn't want to go upstairs again and have to face Arthur and go through more awkward conversation. He can't get it out of his mind, or his conscience, that he practically coerced a fifteen-year-old into giving him a blowjob.

In the end, reason wins out, and Alfred picks up Arthur's pajamas and climbs back up the staircase to rejoin Arthur in his room. He doesn't know what to say or do. Should he just . . . grab his bag and offer to leave with the excuse that it's getting late and that he should go home and let Arthur rest and study? He finds Arthur sitting on the bed, waiting, and he lays the pajamas on the end of the bed.

"Thanks," says Arthur. The silence that follows is uncomfortable and Arthur doesn't like it one bit. "Uhm," he mumbles, glancing around the room, "I won't stop you if you want to leave, but . . . I won't chase you out or anything. That is, um, you know . . ."

"No, it's all right, I have to get home anyway," Alfred says quickly, wanting to spare Arthur the difficulty of trying not to be rude. He picks up his bag, shoulders it. "I'll see you tomorrow during gym, okay?"

"Wh — oh." Arthur visibly deflates. "Yes, of course. Um . . . I'll see you tomorrow." He tries not to let his disappointment show. He'd actually wanted Alfred to stay; but now he can't help but feel that he's scared him off somehow.

Alfred hovers for a moment more, then adds a polite, "Good night," before leaving the house and Arthur, feet getting heavier with every step. The rain's let up outside, but somehow, that doesn't make Alfred feel any better. He's filled with anxiety again for tomorrow (just like the previous night), but this time it's different — a lot worse — because he knows for sure that they did something wrong. That _he_ did something wrong. The feeling follows him as he gets into the car and clings to him during the whole drive home.

Arthur listens to the sound of Alfred's car driving off and pulls the duvet over his head, burying himself into the bed sheets and trying to will his tears to stay down. He doesn't want to cry, he refuses to, but still the tears well up anyway.

He messed up. Alfred was the only person willing to give him the attention that he craved so strongly and yet he scared him off. He hates himself. He feels angry and ugly and wrong and it's all because he couldn't restrain himself. He briefly entertains the thought of not even showing up at school tomorrow and just staying under the duvet all day instead.

Yes, maybe that's exactly what he'll do. Because he doesn't feel as if he can bring himself to face Alfred again.


	3. Three

**x-x-x**

**_All Good Things_**

* * *

**THREE**

* * *

**WARNING and SPOILERS: this chapter contains a non-con scene between Francis and Arthur. However, there is no actual intercourse, and yes, Alfred does come to the rescue in time.**

X

Somehow, Arthur manages to drag himself to school.

It isn't easy and more often than not he's tempted to just rip his school clothes back off and curl up into bed again to feel sorry for himself. He manages, though, and trudges his way to school with a heavy heart and a positively foul mood.

All of his classes that morning are terrible. Even English, his favourite, is barely tolerable. He can hardly force himself to concentrate. It seems that that's becoming something frequent lately.

Now, it's time for PE again, and as he pulls on his sports kit, he feels his nerves rise. He feels excited, miserable, confused and guilty all at once. He wants to see his teacher again, wants him to smile and grin and send him tender looks like nothing has changed, but he knows that won't be happening today. In fact, it might never happen again.

Unbeknownst to Arthur, the teacher of his fantasies and anxieties is actually worse off than he is. For the first time in years, Alfred feels like he's pulling a burden worth several times his own weight in metal — and it saps nonstop at his energy, his supposedly endless good humor, his conscience like a metaphysical leech.

And it completely wrecks his focus. All morning, he's looked into the faces of students he's taught for two or three years and found himself at a loss because he can't even remember their names. His sickeningly heavy gut, his _guilt_, yanks at his attention at the most unexpected moments. He'd be walking through the hallways during his breaks, and he'd see a head of sunny blond, and he'd flinch. Or he'd see eyes that are a shade of green uncannily similar to Arthur's, and he'd have to look away and fight down the tightening lump in his throat before it gets the better of him.

Alfred's a mess. His restless hands — ever so in tune with his emotions — won't stop shaking. He's lost count of the number of times he's dropped a pencil, a clipboard, a ball that day. He feels like he'll be dropping his mind or something soon.

When it's time to teach the class that Arthur's a part of, he leads them out onto the field without looking at Arthur twice, his throat working nervously, his knuckles strained and white.

The worst thing is that he still _wants_ Arthur so badly. It's so wrong. So damn wrong. But he just can't do anything about it except pretend that the desire isn't there.

His aloofness doesn't go unnoticed. Arthur doesn't know that it's possible to feel any sourer that afternoon . . . until his teacher doesn't even spare him a glance when class begins.

_It's not as if it matters anyway. I don't . . . I don't . . . _care _or anything_, he thinks bitterly as he attempts to dribble the football against one of his classmates during a game — which is an irritating task in and of itself. He's not good at performing in front of most people, and trying to compete in a large group at a sport he's not even good at is nerve-wracking. His frustration rises and his face heats up with embarrassment; his heartbeat accelerates and his moves become jittery and clumsy, causing him to eventually trip over his own feet and scramble to regain his balance.

His classmate manages to swipe the ball and score a winning goal for the rival team, earning Arthur a slew of loud groans and tuts from his own teammates.

Arthur twists his fingers into his shirt and seethes in his humiliation for a moment before giving up and retreating to the benches on the edges of the field. He slumps down on the hard wood and rakes his hands through his hair with a heavy sigh. Glancing up again, he manages to catch his teacher's eye for the briefest of moments — then Alfred tears his eyes away again just as quickly. Arthur's chest tightens painfully.

He sighs again, this time more softly, and lets his shoulders slump before leaning back against the fence and crossing his arms together. He can't bring himself to stay angry at his teacher for long. As easy as it is to feel selfish and betrayed, he knows that it's more complex than that. He knows that Alfred's torn between his desires and his morals.

And naturally, Alfred himself knows it, too. All too well. The entire time that he's not watching Arthur (which is actually about ninety-five percent of the period, a record amount of self-restraint for him where Arthur's concerned), he's furiously replaying the previous afternoon in his head.

His memories don't exactly shine a positive light on himself. First seducing Arthur into allowing him to go over his house, practically _molesting_ him in the living room in front of the fireplace (never mind that Arthur was willing — he's a teenager, driven more by his nether regions than his brain, Alfred assesses unhappily), then pushing him into oral sex at the last moment when Arthur's defenses were down . . .

God, Alfred hates himself.

The best thing — the _courteous_ thing, the _respectable_ thing — to do would be to pull Arthur aside after class to apologize, then stay completely clear of him. The _safe_ thing to do would be to skip right to ignoring him until Arthur graduates and leaves the school, signaling a permanent end to their interactions. Alfred hesitates, torn . . . and chooses the former. He's not a monster. He's not going to . . . unintentionally take _advantage_ of a teenage boy and then just blow it off like it's nothing. Mind made up, he sends the rest of the students ahead to the locker rooms once class ends and watches them head back into the school building.

Then it's just the two of them left. He turns to Arthur, who looks up at him from the bench with an unfathomable expression.

"Arthur." Alfred pauses to swallow. Best start with the apology and end it there, he reasons. "I'm . . . I know that nothing will ever make up for my mistake yesterday, but . . . I want to say that I'm really sorry. I don't expect you to forgive me at all, but . . ." He trails off, watching Arthur's face anxiously for his reaction.

Arthur feels his heart threaten to leap from his throat. He stares, wide-eyed and breath caught as his stomach does a somersault.

After Alfred's words register in his mind, however, he does his best to pull himself together. "I . . . ," he begins, and feels a hot blush creep up to his face when his voice cracks. He clears his throat and tries to look as nonchalant as possible. "That's, I mean, why are you apologizing?" he asks, forcing himself to meet his teacher's eyes. So blue and captivating and genuine. He opens his mouth to speak again, but his lips quiver slightly and the words don't come out on the first try. "I don't regret it, Jones," he finally says. "I don't."

For a second, Alfred is a bit speechless. Where's the "how dare you still speak to me" that he'd been expecting to hear? The threats of legal action? The possible tears — the one thing that would really break his resolve?

But no. Arthur's not like that, he knows, and it shames him that in the midst of his own distress, he would think he is. He scrabbles for words. "But — _I_ regret it, Arthur. I just . . . I'm so sorry. You're so young . . . and you're my _student_, and . . . we should stop." Looking down at his feet, he realizes he's beginning to feel vaguely sick. "We never should've done those things in the first place, and I think we both know that."

"But Alfred —" Arthur blurts out, opening and closing his mouth uselessly for a few moments, becoming increasingly frustrated and embarrassed and . . . scared? Worried? Anxious? He frowns up at Alfred and furrows his brows, straightening himself up a bit in his seat and trying to regain his composure.

"I . . . I know it's not right, Alfred. Not by most people's standards, anyway," he says, standing up so that he's slightly more level with Alfred. "We've both crossed a line that we never should have crossed. You can choose to ignore me now and pretend it never happened but I know you're never going to forget about it, Alfred. Not completely. I . . . I wanted it, Alfred, and I still do. I know you do, too. I can see it in the way you're looking at me even now."

Alfred takes half a step back. The desire — and intent — radiating off his student is crystal-clear, and God if it doesn't affect his body, too. "A-Arthur . . . we can't. School's not even over yet. Not here, not now, not after yesterday — Arthur!"

He hadn't realized that despite the distance he was trying to put between them, Arthur was still inching closer. And now Arthur has a hand fisted not-so-subtly in the front of Alfred's T-shirt, eyes alight.

He moves closer and cups the back of Alfred's neck, bringing their lips mere millimetres apart and then brushing them together so softly and fleetingly and, oh, how he sees the conflict in Alfred's eyes and feels the tremble of lips against his own. Arthur can't control the raging mix of hormones within himself — wanting nothing more than to have Alfred hold him, kiss him, love him, _fuck_ him —

Arthur crushes their lips together roughly and moans, wrapping both his arms around Alfred's neck and tangling his fingers in the smooth golden locks.

Captivated, Alfred responds, mouth slipping open for Arthur's tongue, scalp tingling under Arthur's fingertips. Guilt strikes him — _stop, stop, what are you _doing_?_ — but his reactions are beyond his control. His hands are already sliding down the back of Arthur's damp shirt and grasping handfuls of the fabric. Arthur's heat is thrumming against his fingers, his lips salty with sweat, tangy with a wild sort of want — Alfred has to pull back before he plunges in too deep.

"We're in full view of the school. W-we can't . . . do this _here_. There's . . . a storage shed off the field over that way. It's unlocked. Let's go there . . ."

He despises himself a little more with every word that comes out of his mouth, but Arthur obviously won't be taking "no" for an answer, and neither will his own body.

Arthur growls in annoyance and has to actually put effort into stopping himself from rutting against his teacher like a rabbit in heat. As much as he wants to simply push Alfred to the ground and ride him to completion, he pulls himself away and instead drags Alfred in the direction of the shed. If either of them were to get caught doing something like this, it'd ruin them both. He's coherent enough to know that much.

They stumble into the shed amid lots of dust and rusty equipment. Alfred barely has time to close the door behind him before Arthur pushes him up against it. They're pressed together down the lengths of their bodies, and Alfred can feel the leftover adrenaline still buzzing through Arthur, the warmth of his muscles heightened by the activity during class.

His reservations, lulled into complacency by their new, private surroundings, float away to hover in the air, still present but detached as if they belong to someone else. Then he has Arthur by the hips, mouth recaptured, beginning the familiar descent into feverish lust as they rub up against each other, nerves sharp and desperate.

"Alfred, touch me," Arthur gasps out breathlessly, both hands clenched tightly in the material of Alfred's shirt as they exchange passionate and clumsy kisses. Arthur can still feel the tension and reluctance in the way Alfred holds himself and it frustrates him. He wants nothing more than for Alfred to let go of his guilt and sense of duty. "No one will find us here, Alfred. No one's ever going to know . . ."

His words are convincing enough. Alfred's hand slides around to the front, independent of Alfred's mind, and tugs Arthur's gym shorts down his thighs. His student's cock rises to meet his palm; Arthur himself is already flushed and panting, eyes fluttering with their shared arousal. Watching Arthur's face, memorizing it, Alfred begins to work him over with hard, fast strokes. He's all too aware of the time constraint that's pressing down on them. . . . They have to hurry.

Face flushed red and breathing hard, Arthur's too far gone to comment on the rush. The feeling of having someone else touch him like this is still unbelievable to him, no matter how many times he experiences it, and he quickly loses himself to the pleasure, letting out shameful little moans, his body flushing hot at the knowledge that Alfred's looking at him, that he can see him so undone.

He reaches his hand out to cup Alfred through his sweatpants and shivers at the hard, pulsing heat he feels there, wasting no time before he's slipping his fingers past the elastic waistband and gripping around Alfred's erection.

Instinct leads Alfred to slide their shafts together. Without lube, their skin chafes; despite that, however, having both of them hot and firm in his grip still feels phenomenal. The temperature climbs — not just between them, but all around them as well. He breathes raggedly into Arthur's hair, "Tell me when you're . . ."

Arthur groans out, "Alfred —" and wraps his arms around Alfred's shoulders again; he clenches his eyes tightly shut and lets himself indulge in the feeling of their arousals pressed together and the sound of Alfred's soft, bit-back groans and hitches of breath. He feels the all-too-familiar approach of climax come on quickly and he has to bite back a frustrated sob because _oh_ how he wants this to last forever. "I'm going to — oh — Alfred, I'm —"

The guilt is back in an instant, stabbing Alfred in the gut like a blunted knife with each stroke of his hand between them. Arthur's words pound in his ears, and it's astounding how they manage to both uplift him and torment him at the same time. _Pedophile_, his conscience spits at him. _Predator. Sick. Immoral. Disgusting._

He chokes on his breath and leans down to kiss Arthur one last time, so full of desperation and longing that for a moment, the two emotions gather in the hollowness inside his chest and make him feel whole. He tries to imprint the curves and softness of Arthur's lips into his memory, along with the electricity of his body, the dampness of his hot skin. Because they can't do this anymore . . . not after this, not ever again. The time for self-indulgence is over; Arthur and his safety are what matter the most.

"In my hand," he whispers against Arthur's mouth, a final request.

Arthur doesn't need any further convincing; he lets the pleasure overtake him completely and, threading his thin fingers into his teacher's hair, he lets out a strangled, breathless sort of whine as his back arches and his body goes taut with the force of his orgasm.

"Alfred —" he gasps, body flushing with ecstasy as his climax ripples through him. His cum spurts out over Alfred's hand and coats them both. "Ah . . ."

Alfred slows his movements, gently letting Arthur down from his high, waiting until Arthur is warm and lax in his arms before switching their positions and carefully propping Arthur up against the door. When he's sure Arthur isn't going to keel over, he bites his lip and does one of the hardest things he's ever done in his life — he turns his back on him. To finish himself off with fingers that are still wet and sticky with Arthur's cum.

_Not going to cry_, he thinks. _I'm a grown man. I'm not going to cry._ Still, the tears come, and he tries to convince himself that they're for Arthur and everything that Alfred has ever roped him into doing. There's definitely some truth in that — he does feel awful for being sexually active with a fifteen-year-old. His own student, no less. But at least a tiny bit of his sadness is, as much as he hates to admit it, also for himself. He feels like he's losing the love of his life, which doesn't even make sense . . . being in love with someone is more than just lust, and yet, he's so confused about what he feels for Arthur versus what they've actually done together . . .

With those thoughts heavy in his mind, he gives in to his own release. A moment of sweetness, and it's over, overwhelmed by frustration and bitter self-loathing. Without turning back to look at Arthur, Alfred begins to fix his own clothes as best as he can without spotting them with semen. He doesn't say anything. His tongue is stiff in his mouth.

"Jones?" Arthur asks, slightly breathless and dazed. "I could have finished you off, you know. Idiot." he says fondly, but when Alfred doesn't reply he feels a pang of fear in his chest. Oh God, this is going to end up just like last time, isn't it?

"Jones? Alfred," he says again, a little louder and more firmly. When Alfred's shoulders stiffen for a brief moment but the rest of him doesn't react, Arthur frowns and tugs on Alfred's sleeve. "Damn it, Alfred. What's wrong?"

"We can't do this anymore." Alfred reaches up to run his hand over his eyes, remembers it's still covered with semen, and wipes it off on the nearest surface. He can hear that his own voice is slightly strangled, but it's impossible to make it otherwise. He _feels_ like he's being strangled — by his own poor decisions, by his own actions, by the fact that all he wants is to be with Arthur, who's thirteen years his junior and three years short of being legal.

He swallows past the lump in his throat. "We really have to stop. I mean it. I can't be like this with you. I believe you when you say you want to, and that you don't care what other people's standards are, but you're a teenager, Arthur. I can't . . . I just can't. It might be like you said — I'll never be able to forget about this, about you, about _us_, but I'll never be able to forgive myself, either. It'll always be there, haunting me. So . . . because I care about you, I'm letting you go. Okay? Otherwise, I won't ever be able to live with myself for ruining your life."

Arthur's breath catches in his windpipe, and his hands clench into fists by his side. He should have seen this coming. He should have known that Alfred would have reacted this way. He finds it difficult to reason with Alfred, though, and instead he feels hurt and rage and frustration bubble up in the pit of his stomach. It was just so damn _hard_ to accept that they had to keep their distance from each other.

"Damn it, Jones. If you're just going to dwell on your own insecurities, then stop leading me on!" he shouts. He knows his words are insensitive and hurtful, but he can't stop them. They're coming out on their own, unbidden. "Stop building up my hopes with your touches and your tender smiles and your longing glances if you're just going to retreat back into yourself when things get intense! You're the only person who pays me even the slightest bit of attention and when you do this to me, it _hurts_. Ugh. I just — _ugh_. Fuck you!"

Alfred flinches. He doesn't blame Arthur for the crude outburst. Because Arthur's right . . . Alfred really has been leading him on like a blind, selfish jerk. All the reason to make amends by ending things now before they can get even further out of control.

"I'm . . . I'm sure I'm not the only one who pays attention to you. You're the student council president. I'm willing to bet all of your teachers love you." _Just not in the way I do. _"You don't need me, Arthur. We have to get going now; I have to get ready for my next class, and you have to get to yours. If your teacher wants to know why you're late, have him or her shoot me an email. I'll come up with something. I'll — I'll see you tomorrow." He spins around, opens the door, and quickly steps out, ending the discussion and leaving Arthur behind. His heart sinks, but his mind is made up; even though it nearly kills him, he resolves not to look back, and he doesn't.

Arthur's unable to say anything as he watches Alfred leave. His mind races in panic and his gut churns with disappointment, fingers beginning to tremble with his nerves and the adrenaline.

When Alfred closes the door of the shed shut behind him, Arthur lets out a desperate sort of sound as his body twitches forward in want to run after him. He knows it's useless, though. And any kind of persuasion he'd try would only harden Alfred's resolve and hurt his own pride. So instead he only chokes on his own frustrated sobs and crouches down onto the ground,. Fingers tangling and tugging at his own hair until he's exhausted himself enough to go let out a defeated sigh and slump against the old equipment. What is he going to do now? What _can_ he do now?

X

It's been a week. The last class of the day has just ended.

Francis watches Arthur slowly pack up his things, and matches his pace, taking care to tuck his notebooks and binders neatly inside his backpack and color-coordinate his pens and pencils in their case. The rest of the students and their teacher have already gone; it's just the two of them left. No one wants to stick around after school with the tempting prospect of the weekend on the horizon.

Which suits Francis's cause just fine.

Arthur seems distracted at the moment, if the way his eyes are unfocused and his brow is furrowed is any indication, and Francis takes the opportunity to casually make his way across the room to the door. He reaches it, puts his hand on the handle like he intends to walk out . . . then clicks the lock in place.

Then he flicks the lights off, and doesn't bother to hide his pleased expression when Arthur's head finally whips up.

"Wh — Francis?" he asks, almost hesitantly. The classroom is dark but the very slight light sneaking through the slits of the blinds is enough to make out Francis' form and knowing smirk. Arthur's used to Francis's general antics, having spent many years in school putting up with him, but something about the way Francis stares at him this time makes him nervous, and he finds himself fidgeting uncomfortably.

Usually, plenty of beating around the bush with a liberal dose of flirtation mixed in is Francis's favorite method of approach with Arthur Kirkland; he knows that it irritates him to no end, and irritating Arthur certainly makes for an amusing pastime. However, the matter at hand is of a particular importance . . . and so for once, Francis wastes no time in getting to the heart of things.

He strides leisurely across the room and comes to a stop before Arthur's desk, hands clasped loosely behind his back. "What is this, _mon cher_? Has our asexual student council president finally been seduced . . . by a certain charming young man?"

A bone chilling wave of panic flushes through Arthur's body from top to bottom and time seems to grind to a shuddering halt as his body stiffens.

"Wh — what . . . ," he chokes out, hands tightening and twisting in the straps of his school bag. "What on earth are you on about, Francis? Unlike you, I don't have the time to dabble in such — such lewd things. Y-you know that."

"Is that so?" Francis muses, leaning in. "Your secret lover is rather attractive, I must admit . . . late twenties, early thirties, no? A man with a handsome face, a perfect body, an amiable personality — overall, a man hard to resist. Still, it _is_ rather strange for someone of your caliber to go after someone so much older. And a _teacher_, no less. It is the sex that draws you, is it not? Oh, no, settling with someone of your age would not have been enough for you. You wanted more, you wanted someone with experience and a big cock; you wanted something forbidden, which is why you turned to _him_." He laughs unpleasantly.

"Who would have known? Our prissy little student council president, having a sordid affair with one of his male teachers because he believes that no one else can satisfy him. You naughty, naughty thing. Tell me, _mon amour_, how has he had you? Out in the field in the open, we know . . . perhaps in a closet somewhere as well? Over a desk in a classroom?"

"F-fuck off, Francis!" Arthur snaps, shoving Francis back before backing away a few steps. He can feel the intense heat rise in his face and the shame settle in his gut, the nerves, adrenaline and fear making his hands tremble and knees weak and oh, God, he feels like he's going to be sick.

"I didn't — I wouldn't, I . . . I have no idea what you're talking about!"

Unfazed, Francis steps around the desk, entering Arthur's personal space again. "Oh, really?" He pulls his phone out of his pocket, presses a couple of buttons, and turns the screen in Arthur's direction. "Who is this, then, may I ask?"

It's a blurry snapshot, clearly taken in the late afternoon from a window. A school window, because despite the poor quality of the photo, it's unmistakable that the setting is the playing field, and that on the playing field are two people lying on the grass.

Arthur, on his back, with Alfred between his legs giving him head. Their first less-than-platonic encounter that fateful afternoon.

Everything stops then and Arthur swears he can feel his heart trying to jump out his throat. The nauseous swaying in his gut tightens into a painful, sickening knot and he starts to feel cold sweat form on his skin. He can't do anything but turn to Francis, his eyes wide and pleading for mercy.

Francis pockets the phone again, smile wider — almost wolfish. "Now, I do not intend to report you or Mr. Jones right away. That would not be very . . . discreet of me, would it? I am curious, however, as to why you had to go to all the trouble with him when you could have simply turned to me. Is that not all you wanted? A wet mouth at your disposal and a hard cock in your willing ass? I could have given you that. I _can_ give you that."

He edges closer, eying Arthur's button-up shirt.

"N-no . . . ," Arthur breathes out, pushing weakly against the taller boy. _I don't want that_, he thinks to himself, the voice in his head screaming at him. _I don't want him!_

His hands ball into fists against Francis's shirt and he looks up at him again pleadingly. "No, Francis, you can't tell anyone about this. If anyone was to find out then Alfred would lose his job — _worse_ than that. Francis, please . . . please, no . . ."

"Oh, so is it 'Alfred' now?" In a flash, Francis's arm is hooked around Arthur's waist, and his other hand slips under his shirt like a snake. He finds a nipple and pinches at it until it begins to harden under his fingers, and smiles at Arthur's whimper. "Well, if seeing Alfred go to prison is not something you want . . . perhaps you should give him up for me? I can satisfy you any way you wish. At the very least, having sex with me would be far more legal than whatever dirty activities you have been engaging in with Mr. Jones, no?"

Arthur gasps. "Stop — _Francis_!" His hands flies outward to wrap tightly around Francis's arms. He grits his teeth and clenches his eyes shut as Francis twists and toys with his nipple. It takes every ounce of self-control he has not to snap and punch Francis across the face. If he does something like that, the filthy frog would tell the whole school in no time, no questions asked.

So, with a great deal of shame and an almost overwhelming feeling of self-loathing, he tightens his grip on Francis's forearms and continues to let him abuse his body, tears welling up behind tightly closed eyes and throat constricting painfully.

Francis senses the change, of course. He remarks casually, "Giving in so soon? How unusually meek of you . . . then again, I suppose it is because you want to protect your dear _Alfred_, hmm?" He lets go of Arthur's nipple, and without warning, shoves his hand roughly down the front of Arthur's trousers. After some probing, he gets a good hold on Arthur's soft cock inside his underwear and begins playing with it, pulling at the foreskin and pressing his thumbnail into the slit.

"A-ahh . . . ," Arthur lets out weakly, body jerking in surprise and, to his shame, pleasure.

He tries to get himself back under control and remember the reality of the situation. However, even though his mind is yelling warnings at him, his body reacts on its own and his cock grows harder with every tug and pinch and swipe of Francis' hand.

"Oh God, s-stop it —" he chokes out from between clenched teeth, staring down at Francis's hand in horror. He tries to keep his composure — tries to look threatening and angry — but his flushed red cheeks and wet eyes betray him.

Francis smirks. "Protests aside, you certainly seem to be enjoying it, hmm?" He gives Arthur's dick a sharper tug, and moves in even closer to graze his lips up Arthur's jaw.

"I wonder if you can come like this . . . just from the light teasing of my hand, and nothing else," he whispers in Arthur's ear. "I do not think it is beyond your abilities. Mr. Jones has trained you well, has he not? Tell me, _mon cher_. What has he done to you? Through what methods has he given you pleasure, and you him?"

Arthur grits his teeth. He does well to keep in his moans, but his hitching, laboured breathes and consistent spasms take away from the tough and indifferent approach he's trying desperately to pull off. "F-fuck you . . ."

_What is _wrong_ with me?_ he thinks to himself through all the mess. _This is disgusting — vile — and yet my body is reacting on its own. My God, I'm pathetic._

He starts to pine for Alfred as the fear and unfamiliarity of the situation overwhelms him, much like a child would pine for its mother when it's ill — wanting Alfred to take the fear and unease away and make everything better again. Suddenly, his involuntary arousal, terror, self-loathing and childish yearning morph into a dizzying cluster of emotions and he's torn between passing out, sobbing, and throwing up.

With a sigh, Francis withdraws his hand — only to grab Arthur by the shoulders and whirl him around. There's no time for Arthur to react; with a swift movement, Francis shoves him down across a desk, chest-first, and keeps him pinned there with a hand between his shoulder blades. Arthur flails weakly under his palm, but to no avail. Francis's strength is superior to his.

"Be good now," Francis warns with deceptive gentleness. His free hand glides over Arthur's hip, then moves around to the front and unbuttons Arthur's trousers, easing down the zipper right after. He manages to get a good grip on the waistband, and with a yank, pulls everything — trousers and underwear — down to Arthur's knees to expose his ass. Francis takes a moment to just drink in the sight before giving one round cheek an approving slap.

"Beautiful, as I had expected . . . though certainly far from untouched, if you understand my meaning. How do you like it, Arthur? Hard? Soft? Perhaps with some ample foreplay?" He uses two dainty fingertips to bring Arthur's opening into view. "Yes, very beautiful indeed."

Arthur inhales sharply and arches out as a sharp bolt of pleasure from the slap jolts through him. He lets out a groan of shame and rests his head against the table's surface, eyes still closed firmly. _For Alfred_, he thinks through the haze of panic. _I can do this. For Alfred's sake, and for my own._

He tries to reassure himself over and over again, but no amount of self-comfort can ease the foreboding knowledge that he's about to lose his virginity to the last person he would ever want to find himself in this kind of situation with. He originally planned to give it to Alfred, on a proper bed with the proper feelings between them, but now . . .

Francis dampens a finger in his mouth and, with a few expert turns of his wrist, worms it inside Arthur's hole. He comments with an unconcerned, almost bored air, "Fairly tight, despite what you have been doing. But please, accept that as a compliment; I find your hot, silky texture quite lovely. To think that Mr. Jones has been having this all to himself — it makes me a bit jealous, _mon amour_. . . . Unless there is someone else that neither he nor I know about? Someone who has, ah, also had a taste of you?"

Biting his bottom lip, Arthur lets out a shuddering breath through his nose. It's awful, uncomfortable and so very wrong, but Arthur's body responds regardless to Francis's finger and his taunts.

"I — _ah!_ — I am not some slut, you bastard. D-don't . . . don't you dare group me with the likes of you . . . !"

With a chuckle, Francis adds another finger. "Why ever not? It matters nothing to me. I would love to have you whether you are promiscuous as a whore or as chaste as the Virgin Mary."

"God, no . . ." Arthur buries his head in his arms and tugs at his own hair painfully, to distract himself from the reality of the situation. "Oh my God, just . . . just get it over with," he says shakily. "I can't bear this humiliation any longer . . ."

The metallic sound of keys jangling in the lock makes them both jump. Francis quickly steps away from Arthur. In less than five seconds, the door swings open, and in storms Alfred Jones with the quiet wrath of the heavens hanging over his head.

Alfred's eyes swing from Arthur's compromising position to Francis's face, then back again. A slight tint of pink reaches his cheeks, but his expression doesn't change.

"What the hell is going on here, boys? Either of you care to explain?"

Arthur's heart is in his throat when the light from the hallway illuminates the darkened room. Whipping his head up, he's stunned into silence upon seeing his PE teacher's stern, assessing face.

He takes advantage of Francis' surprise and uses the moment to quickly compose himself. He feels like he should be relieved, but instead a crippling feeling of dread and embarrassment washes through him and settles in his gut.

The Alfred standing in front of them is very different from the Alfred who had spent a handful of snatched minutes in a storage shed with Arthur a week before. The Alfred then had been unsure, unsteady, hampered by his feelings — almost cottony from his personal dilemma. The Alfred now is all steel and hard edges and barely controlled anger.

"Well?" Alfred snaps when neither student speaks. "What possessed you two to do something like this at school? I'd expected better from you, Francis — and you, Arthur. Vice president and president of the student council, the two biggest role models of the Academy — what in the world were you thinking?"

Francis shrugs lightly, appearing unperturbed. "We were just having a little fun, Mr. Jones. No harm done." His gaze slides in Arthur's direction, and he gives him a suggestive wink. "Right, Arthur?"

Arthur gives Francis a look of utter disgust and anger wells up inside of him. How dare he humiliate him so and act so nonchalant about it? But then his attention goes back to Alfred again and he can't help but recoil under his teacher's intense, furious gaze.

"I . . ." His throat suddenly goes dry and and he has to look away from Alfred to be able to speak. "I was extremely careless, Mr Jones. I'm sorry. I should have...should have known better. It won't happen again."

The room fills with a strained, eerie silence and, in that moment Arthur's heart tears painfully.

Alfred runs his hand through his hair, frustrated. Finally, as if reaching the end of a long, excruciating internal debate, he says, "Well, you know the rules, and you decided to break them, so I'm gonna have to write the two of you up. Come with me to my office." He turns to leave the room with the clear expectation that they will follow him.

"No." Francis crosses his arms with a smug expression.

Alfred stops, turns his head. His face contorts in disbelief. "What did you say?"

"I said no, Mr. Jones." Francis's words come out smooth and self-satisfied. "Reporting me is out of the question. You may do whatever you wish with Arthur – is that not what you are after in the first place? — but you will leave _me_ out of it. I will have no slur against my name. I do, after all, intend to run for student council president next year."

They locked stares, blue pitted against blue. "Don't you dare back-talk me, Francis. I'm your teacher. If you think I'm gonna let you off if you throw Arthur under the bus, then you're wrong," Alfred says stiffly. "Unfortunately, after this is done, neither of you will be running for student council next year. Now come along. Both of you." His resolve is still steady. But somewhere in his tone, there's an undercurrent of doubt. Francis seems to pick up on it like a hound on the scent; his leer widens, and he tilts his head in triumph.

"Oh, really, Mr. Jones? Let me put it in these terms, then: if you report me, then the next school year will see me out of office and _you_ out of a job."

That catches Alfred's attention. Nothing in his face gives away his thoughts, but his hands clench almost subtly into fists as Francis's words sink in. His stance becomes wary. "Are you threatening me, Francis?" he says, voice perfectly calm. Testing the waters. "You tell me, then — on what grounds, what lie of yours, am I going to lose my job?"

Arthur's eyes dart frantically between the two. He wants badly to intervene in the exchange but he knows his input would only make the situation worse.

_Stop it, Alfred — just let it go. He knows about us_, he thinks inwardly as he clutches the edge of one of the desks and worries his own lips to the point where they start to smart and sting. He's willing to sacrifice himself if it means the both of them will be safe. Anything to keep Alfred out of this.

"It is no lie, Mr. Jones." Francis laughs. "What grounds, you ask? Let me enlighten you." He takes his phone out and steps closer to Alfred, raising it to show him the screen the same way he'd shown Arthur. The blood leaves Alfred's face rapidly, his skin paling as recognition sets in.

"Is that — that's not —"

"So, as you can see, Mr. Jones, I have quite the one up over you," Francis says sweetly. "I recommend that you overlook Arthur's and my mischief today, or a copy of this revealing little picture might, oh, wind up on the principal's desk? Make it through the superintendent's fax machine? Or . . . even better . . ." His voice drops to a stage whisper. "End up in the mailbox at the police station, with your name, address, and license plate number written conveniently on the back, perhaps?"

Alfred is shaking, small tremors running up and down his body from the cocktail of fear, shame, and resentment brewing in his blood. Francis, poised and gracile in contrast, lets the silence in the room thicken until Alfred can stand it no longer.

"What do you want?" the gym teacher asks at last. "Why would you . . . go to all this trouble to . . ." His eyes start to move in Arthur's direction, but he checks himself quickly. "What exactly are you hoping to get out of this?"

As nonchalant as Alfred is worked up, Francis examines his nails. "Well, Mr. Jones, this is what I am 'hoping to get,' as you expressed it: one, you allow this encounter between Arthur and me to pass by without incident. Two, you stay far, far away from Arthur. Not for his benefit, obviously, but because he is — to put it quite simply — mine to begin with. I have had my eye on him since before you knew of his existence, so no point in contending with me on that matter. Besides, it is what Arthur wants as well, is it not, _mon cher_?" He steps closer to Arthur and slips a hand under his chin, his smile victorious.

Alfred's expression crumbles. He tries to hide it by shifting his head to the side, but his rapidly working throat and blinks betray him. "Oh. So . . . you and Arthur . . . oh. So . . . that's it? That's what you . . . want me to do? In return for . . ."

"No," Arthur says, and the word echoes around them.

For some reason, Arthur's stomach had dropped upon hearing Alfred's defeated words. He knows it's better for the both of them to just have Alfred let this go, but he can't bear to look at his teacher's shattered expression and have him fall for such a lie. He just can't.

"N-no," he forces out again as he tears his gaze from Alfred and glares right into Francis's eyes. He slaps the Frenchman's hand away and shoves him back roughly, causing Francis to stumble back into a desk with a surprised huff. "Keep your bloody hands off me, you damned frog. Don't you dare try to blackmail me as a way to _rape_ me and expect me to keep my mouth shut about it. There's no way I'd do this willingly — not in a million fucking years!"

"What are you talking about?" Francis scoffs, straightening again with economic elegance. He is, to his credit, a fine actor. Perhaps too fine. "Do not pretend as if you are the victim here, Arthur. Well . . . naturally, you _are _the victim where Mr. Jones is concerned — it would not do to have a teacher's paws on you, yes? But you and I, we are in love. _Genuine_ love. Do not let your sense of chivalry make you sympathetic toward this criminal; do not let it push you away from me."

His eyes sparkle passionately, as if he means every last word. Anyone looking on would be convinced of his apparent sincerity.

"Wh —" Arthur stares at Francis in both shock and utter confusion. His mouth moves uselessly as he tries to wrap his mind around exactly what the hell is going on. Francis _is_ a good actor, because he even manages to fool Arthur for the briefest of moments before Arthur sees through the false emotion in his eyes.

"What? N-no, _what_? You're lying! Alfred —" He casts a desperate look towards his teacher.

Alfred looks back and forth between them, bewildered and doubtful, at a loss for words.

Francis continues with the same vigor and confidence, "He was only a substitute for you, Arthur. We both know that. We could not be together properly this year due to our individual duties, so you settled for him because you needed another man's attention. For that I forgive you, _mon amour_. I understand your reasons. Now we can be a couple again without having to bother ourselves with him." He gives Alfred a sly sideways glance. "And I am sure he is not too keen on sending himself to jail by reporting us."

"No, I . . . you're lying —" Arthur insists. Francis's words couldn't be further from the truth, but as Arthur throws Alfred one last pleading glance he has to wonder if it's really worth fighting against. He can't stand the thought of Alfred walking away from all of this without knowing the truth, but in the end it would probably be the safest outcome for the both of them.

And really, he can't expect Alfred to put himself in the line of fire for his own sake. . . .

His shoulders slump almost stiffly as he lets out a strained, defeated huff of air, feeling his throat clench and eyes moisten in frustration. _God damn it all . . ._

Alfred is watching him closely, brow knitted together. He'd been spun in by Francis's tale, it seems, but it also seems that he's actually beginning to think about it carefully, picking apart the words to get at the message underneath, and trying to compare that message to what he understands about Arthur.

And somehow, thank God, something in his head doesn't match up.

"Arthur," says Alfred, tone still wavering precariously, "do you . . . really love him? Am I really just a fling to you?" Francis opens his mouth, but Alfred stops him with a hand. "No. I want to hear it from him, in his own words. I . . . I want to know for sure."

"I . . ." The syllable catches in Arthur's throat. He swallows thickly, shuffles on his feet and averts his eyes once again. His next words are hesitant, but loud and clear enough for them all to hear. "I don't love him. What he did — what you just saw — was forced." He glares again at Francis.

Francis lets out another easy laugh. "Of course he says that. He wants to avoid hurting your feelings, Mr. Jones."

Alfred ignores him. His gaze comes to rest on Arthur once more. He takes a deep breath. "I believe you. Tell me, though . . . why did you apologize then when I walked in? If he forced you, why didn't you say so right off the bat?"

"Because I . . . don't want you to get yourself mixed up in all of this," Arthur says quietly, eyes falling to the side where he fixes them on one of his own hands, clenched and white-knuckled on the edge of the desk.

"But, Arthur, I'm an adult. I can look after myself. Why would . . ." Alfred raised his arms in a helpless gesture. "Why risk your own health and safety for me? I mean, on some level, he's right. I deserve whatever I'll get, but you don't have to be involved in any of this at all. You don't have to be involved with _me_. Why put yourself on the line like this when you can just, I don't know, turn your back and pretend it never happened? For your own sake?"

Arthur clicks his tongue and fixes his teacher with a light frown. Some of his trademark stubbornness rises to the surface. "Because this is _my_ fault, too. We're both at fault and I'm not going to very well let you suffer the consequences for something I'm partly to blame for. I can't stand the thought of you getting hurt by this because I . . . that is, you — to me — you're . . ."

His words trail off at the end he feels a wave of heat rise up to his cheeks. Embarrassed, he raises the back of his hand to his mouth as if that last sentence is something he can just wipe from his lips. What the hell is he saying? All of his feelings, coming out at such an inopportune moment . . .

Alfred's face softens. "Arthur . . . I told you before that it'd be better if we —"

"How very touching," Francis interrupts in his usual blasé manner. "But I tire of this. So what will it be, Mr. Jones? Will you let me and my rightful lover go in exchange for the privilege of walking away a free man, or will you persist in your senseless pursuit and secure yourself a place behind bars? It is, naturally, your choice." He twirls his phone around in his hand — a not-so-subtle reminder to both Alfred and Arthur of his trump card.

Silence falls between the three of them once more. Alfred looks back and forth between the two students. Not in confusion or distrust, but in serious contemplation. At last, he speaks, his words directed at Francis. "You're right. I should never have tried to be with Arthur in the first place. For that, I'm responsible, and I won't put him in that kind of position again."

Arthur's heart sinks.

"However," Alfred says with equal firmness, "I'm not going to stand by and watch you take advantage of Arthur, either. If interfering with your plans sends me to jail, so be it. Like you said before . . . if I report you, then you'll hand in the evidence that'll convict me. But it goes both ways, Francis. If you send in that picture, I'll let them know about what you tried to do to Arthur, and the Academy will expel you for attempting to molest a classmate."

"And what makes you think they would take your word for it?" Francis counters. He glances at Arthur. "You will be known as a sex offender who targets minors, Mr. Jones. What reason would they have to believe _you_?"

"Arthur can testify." Alfred closes his eyes for a moment. "He can testify against us both — that I was in an inappropriate relationship with him, and that you forced him to do things against his will. It'll take away from my credibility as well as yours, but it'll add to his. He's the only one who has the whole story. He can do with it what he wants."

Francis takes a minute to digest all of this, smugness replaced by thoughtfulness. The seconds tick by with agonizing slowness. Finally, he nods in acknowledgment. "Indeed. It appears that we are at an impasse."

They both look at Arthur, Alfred with honesty and acceptance of his own fate and Francis with mild discontentment. "Well? Do you have anything to say, _mon cher_?" Francis asks.

Arthur turns to look directly into Francis' eyes. "If . . . if you do anything to hurt Alfred I _will_ tell everyone what you tried to do to me today. I don't think a molestation report will look good on your permanent record."

"I believe that settles it, then." Francis pockets his phone. His gaze goes from Arthur to Alfred, and his eyelids lower with snobbish indifference, as if his reputation isn't in danger of being utterly ruined. "There is no point in having the both of us turned in," he says, addressing Alfred. "I will not expose you as a felon, and you will not report me. And Arthur, for his part, will not file charges against either of us. It seems that that way, there is no winner."

"So is that it? You're going to drop the whole thing, just like that? Like it's just a risky game of chance to you to begin with?" Alfred asks, suspicion edging his tone. "You expect me to trust you to not go ahead and have me arrested when my back's turned?"

"You can rest assured that I will do anything to keep myself safe, which — in this case — will bode well for all of us," Francis says carelessly, jerking his head in Arthur's direction to include him in the generalization. "I will leave the two of you to your own devices. But . . ." He steps closer to Arthur and leans in until his lips are almost touching Arthur's cheek. "One day, Arthur, you will realize that you have made a mistake in choosing him, and you will come to me. I will relish my victory then," he whispers with certainty.

Then, in a louder voice, he adds, "Good day to you, Mr. Jones." With a sort of fluent dignity, he turns, picks up his backpack from a nearby desk, and leaves the room without a backwards glance.

The sound of Francis's footsteps echo down the hallway and fade into nothingness, leaving behind a heavy silence and a strained atmosphere in the room. Arthur's torn between relief and intense nervousness and he's unable to do anything but glance back and forth between Alfred and the floor skittishly.

Alfred deflates somewhat. His strong sense of purpose is gone, and when he faces his student, he seems years older than twenty-eight. Or perhaps it's just his real maturity making itself known on a rare occasion.

"Are you okay?" he asks. "Do you need any first aid? I can take you down to my office and get you some medical supplies if you do."

Arthur shakes his head. "No, I'm fine. I'm not hurt or anything," he says quietly, picking at a bit of old tape on the table's surface. "Are . . . are you? Okay, I mean." He raises his eyes to meet Alfred's almost shyly.

Alfred presses his lips together. After a moment, he lets out a sigh. "Do you want to know the truth? I'm shaken, but I'm glad that I was able to stop him from abusing you, and I'm glad that I won't be going to jail. And I know that I should stay away from you like I said I would. But part of me still wants to be with you. Part of me still cares too much, and it hurts almost as much as it did when I walked in and saw you bending over a desk for him."

A heartbeat of silence. "I-I didn't do it willingly!" Arthur stammers, feeling a surge of panic course through him again at Alfred's words. "It all happened so suddenly, and I panicked and he was _threatening_ you and coming on to me so aggressively and — ah, damn it all," he curses, covering his face in shame and frustration.

"Oh, God, no, Arthur, I'm not blaming you — it's not your fault — please don't misunderstand me," Alfred says pleadingly. He steps forward, closer, holding out his hands as if to bring Arthur to his chest, but he stops himself just in time and his arms drop back down to his sides. "God, I'm so sorry . . . I wish I'd gotten here earlier to stop him from going that far, or doing it at all, even. When I said that it hurt, I meant that, well, that it kills me to see you with someone else. Even if it wasn't consensual, even if you didn't want it or ask for it . . ." He brings his hand up to the bridge of his nose, a thumb on one temple and an index finger on the other.

After a second, he shakes his head. "Look at me. I'm still so damn selfish even after you just went through something like that. I'm sorry, Arthur. If . . . if there's anything you need — a ride home, first aid, _anything_, let me know and I'll do it for you. But I still think it'll be best for us to stay away from each other, however I feel about you. However you feel about me."

Arthur's face feels hot at Alfred's words and he drops his hand from his face. "Y-you, I —" He sighs, hands clenching into fists as he tries to find some way to turn his feelings into words. Giving up, he takes a few steps closer to Alfred until there is only a small distance separating them. He looks up and locks eyes with his teacher, his cheeks red and flushed and his frame still trembling with emotion.

Without further hesitation, he throws himself forward and wraps his arms tightly around Alfred, fists tightening in the fabric of his shirt and face burying into his chest. His shoulders tremble faintly as he tries to will back the tears. Frustration, relief, confusion, desire, fear and heartbreak finally taking their toll on him. "Fuck . . . ," he chokes out, holding onto Alfred even harder.

The rational part of Alfred yells at him to pull away, to never touch Arthur again unless it's absolutely necessary, but it's overridden by the part of him that wants to feel Arthur pressed up against him, safe in his arms. Vulnerable and raw, he hugs him back, tightly enough to feel their hearts beating in tandem.

And he knows for certain in that moment, like a flash across his vision, that he will never be able to let Arthur go. He can't imagine a future without Arthur in his embrace, without the delicate texture of his body against his or his scent surrounding him like the feeling of coming home.

God help him. Teacher and student or not, he wants Arthur to be safe by his side, forever. He needs Arthur as much as he needs to breathe.

It's evident that Arthur feels the same way about him. "I can't stay away from you. I _can't_, Alfred. How can you expect me to just pretend that nothing ever happened? I can't stop thinking about you, and it's so stupid and ridiculous of me but . . ." Arthur forces back the tears. "I want you so much that it hurts me." He wraps his hand around the back of Alfred's neck and pulls him down to kiss him. A hot, desperate kiss that he has to quickly pull away from because he's too short of breath. He buries his face into Alfred's chest again, the hand that was previously around his neck now tugging at Alfred's shirt collar. "Don't make me say it . . ."

Unable to resist, Alfred leans down again. "It's okay. You don't have to. However you feel about me — I get it, 'cause I feel the same way about you." He brings Arthur's mouth to his again for a second kiss, a slower, heavier, more proper one, all of his feelings tumbling out at once. Times stops moving in their little bubble, and doesn't start again even after they finally pull away from each other.

Arthur's eyes are brilliant, his lips shiny and slightly parted as if asking for more. And Alfred stops trying to discourage himself in favor of kissing him again, and again, and again — and before he knows it, his lips are on Arthur's forehead, his nose, his cheeks, his jaw, the side of his neck. He feels Arthur's hands stroking through his hair; Arthur's head is tipped back, his eyes closed in bliss.

Arthur lets out the quietest of moans, eyelashes fluttering at the feel of Alfred's lips against his skin and strong arms holding him close. He trails his hands from Alfred hair down to the back of his neck and caresses behind his ears, thumb tracing Alfred's tanned cheek gently. He wants nothing more than to lose himself in the feel of the moment.

"I'm sorry," he whispers quietly, voice but a breath at this point. "I didn't mean to drag you into this."

"No, I'm sorry for not being there for you, for pushing you away, and for allowing us do something so private in plain sight where people like Francis could see us." Alfred presses a kiss to his cheekbone. "It's not your fault; it never was, so please don't blame yourself."

He gently takes Arthur by the waist and hugs him close again.

Arthur exhales heavily and relaxes against Alfred's chest, lulling his eyes closed and trying to will himself to calm down. He body is still tense from what had occurred with Francis, but his emotions are fried and he is quite frankly exhausted. He wants nothing more than to lean against Alfred forever, but something suddenly crosses his mind.

"Wait," he says, furrowing his brows in puzzlement. He looks up at Alfred. "How on earth did you know where to find me?"

Alfred clears his throat, and a subtle blush settles in his cheeks. "Um, actually, I . . ." He looks away from Arthur's questioning green gaze, embarrassed. "I-I kind of have your schedule, you know, memorized. And I . . . sort of watch for you every day after the bell because you, uh, you always leave school by the same door and you didn't show up today, so I came to find you because even though I had no reason to be, I was worried about you. But I'm relieved I came despite my doubts. God, I'm so relieved. If I hadn't . . ."

He presses Arthur to his chest even more tightly. "I would never have forgiven myself if I'd only found out afterward, after it was too late for me to do anything," he breathes into his hair.

"O-oh," Arthur murmurs, his cheeks heating up. He leans in a little closer to Alfred. "When did you memorize my timetable?" he asks, genuinely puzzled.

"I sort of . . . looked it up in the school filing system on a computer during one of my breaks earlier in the year," Alfred admits sheepishly. "Because I was, you know, curious. About you. Uh . . . yeah, you probably think I'm a complete stalker now."

Blushing, Arthur hides his face in the front of Alfred's shirt and fiddles with Alfred's sleeve nervously. "W-well, I can't say I really mind or anything..."

Alfred smiles softly, insecurities lifted, and moves his lips down to kiss along the shell of Arthur's ear. ". . . Okay. That's good."

Goosebumps run up and down Arthur's arms in response. It's difficult, but Arthur forces himself to pull away from Alfred's sweet embrace and casts a look at the slowly darkening sky outside. He's not sure how much time has passed since the bell rang but he's sure he's missed his bus by this point.

Alfred seems to come to the same realization. "I can drive you," he offers.

Arthur looks up at him and smiles. "That would be much appreciated."

"All right then. Come on, let's get you back home." And after one last kiss, they leave the darkness of the room behind, together.

* * *

**A/N: Bet you guys thought we'd abandoned this fic, huh? Well, here's an update after nearly a year. Part of the delay was actually due to the fact that we also wrote an indulgent, smutty side story for AGT that doesn't take place until much later in the timeline. It won't be posted until we actually get to the proper place, though.**

**Now, some of you are probably saying to yourselves, "What the FrUK were you two thinking, putting in that traumatizing scene between Francis and Arthur?!" And our answer is: it helped rebuild the trust between Alfred and Arthur, which is essential to the plot (what little of it there is, haha). And that is that.**

**Thank you for waiting on us for so long, and do leave us a review below!**


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